I can't tell that story, it's wildly inappropriate
by 1848EllisBell
Summary: Ficathon entry, in which I strove to fill as many prompts as I could. A series of unrelated one-shots, rated K - M. Caskett, except Ch11 - Esplanie. COMPLETE. (No need to review, just read and - hopefully - enjoy!)
1. Chapter 1

**Filling as many Castle Ficathon prompts as I can, inspired by: A series of drabbles that tries to cover every single prompt on this list of prompts.**  
**Each fill will be a one-shot, and unconnected to previous fills. Most will be longer than drabbles. I have no word count or prompt fill goals, just going to fill them as I find the time/feel inspired.**

* * *

**Prompt:_ Cops and Robbers- what if Castle had been injured?_**

* * *

"Castle?" Beckett yells through the smoke, the dust, the falling remnants of the wall. It burns her eyes, and each breath she takes before calling his name only sucks more of it into her lungs, the filaments scratching her throat on the way down. It doesn't even slow her down. "Castle?" Her voice grows hoarse as she calls, desperate for an answer. She pushes forward, through the rubble, listening, hoping.

"Beckett?"

The reply is weak, softer than she'd like, but it's him; he's alive.

She turns a corner, and through the smoke that's burning her eyes she sees him.

She can't suppress the relieved smile as she rushes over to where he sits. Martha is tending to him, with bound hands, examining a cut on the side of his face, but he's batting her hands away gently, reassuring her he's okay.

"Castle," she breathes out as she approaches, the relief that's washing over her audible in her voice.

"Hey, Beckett." He's smiling, giving her a big ol' grin despite his obvious pain, and she finds herself returning it. She kneels before him, and brushes his hair back to examine his wound for herself. She meets his eyes briefly before focusing on his injury, and she sees the shift, the quick flash of a moment, when he sees the shake in her hand as she reaches up, and his brow furrows. And then he's relaxing his features again, and smiling, and she knows he won't mention it. Not right now.

"It's worse than he's letting on," Martha says gently from her son's side.

Beckett nods. "Yeah, it is." It's bleeding more than she'd like, but the medic is already entering the room, so she lingers there, a careful hand to his head, keeping the strands of his surprisingly soft hair from sticking to the cut.

Her body shuffles in a little closer; the soot is clogging her nose, but she's so close now that when she inhales there are hints of him, and it calms her. The comforting Castle scent wraps around her, draws her nearer, and it takes all she has not to close her eyes and lose herself in it. He's alive. And, oh God, she wants to kiss him, finds herself fighting a need to press her lips to his and pour all her relief into him.

"Detective?"

Snapped back, Beckett turns to Martha, and gives her an apologetic smile as the older woman raises her hands to remind her they're still bound.

"Oh, sorry," she says sheepishly, and quickly works on freeing Castle and Martha's hands while the medic probes at his wound.

Castle hisses in pain; she cuts the plastic restraining his hands, and then presses her palm to his, squeezing his hand through the pain. He lifts his eyes to hers, and forces a half smile. It's harder for him to ignore the injury now. She holds his hand and his eyes and still she can't stop smiling.

_He's alive._

"You changed," he laments, distracting himself. "Shame," he adds, "you looked hot in that uniform."

Kate rolls her eyes, shaking her head at his mother. "See what I put up with?" she asks, and then she listens as the medic demands Castle's attention, asking if he hit his head, what happened.

"It grazed me more than hit me," Castle responds.

"What did?" Kate asks.

"A chunk of wall, I'm guessing. It was decidedly rock-like."

"You're going to need a few stitches," the medic tells him. He's helping him to his feet, but Castle's brushing it off.

"I can walk," he says, a hint of frustration in his voice.

"Accept the help, Castle," Beckett warns. She helps Martha to her feet, and returns to Castle's side.

"Well I can at least apply pressure to my own head wound," he mutters, moving to place his own hand over the gauze, batting away the medic's.

"You are the worst patient, Castle," Beckett murmurs.

"You have no idea," Martha drawls.

They exit the bank, Alexis flying at them the moment they're a safe distance from the unstable building. She wraps her arms around her father and her gran, bringing them all in for a group hug. Beckett stands aside, and nods to the medic. "I'll bring him to the ambulance in a minute," she says.

The medic looks dubious, but then nods. "One minute," he says firmly.

She watches quietly as the family reunites, gives them a moment together, before the red stained gauze and the pained look drawing Castle's features tight moves her into action. She steps slowly up to them, and gives Alexis an apologetic smile. "I'll bring him back once he's stitched up," she promises the girl.

Alexis gives her father one last hug, and then nods at the detective. "Thank you."

Kate gives Alexis the smile the girl is still unable to grant her, before she curls her fingers around Castle's elbow and guides him away. He doesn't need the help, but he doesn't shake her off, perhaps understanding it's more for her own benefit, to be able to feel the warmth of life beneath his dusty clothing.

"No, really," he says as they walk towards the ambulance, and she's convinced he's about to remind her he can walk on his own, and she's prepared to chide him in response, when he finishes with, "Thank you."

She holds his eyes, returns all the warmth, gratitude and relief with her own gaze, and the word_ always_ dances on the tip of her tongue, but so do three other words, and she's terrified of misspeaking. So she presses a palm to the cold, open door at the back of the ambulance as he steps in, and she lingers there, the interior too small, too intimate for her right now.

The medic works and when Castle's face contorts in pain she can't stay away anymore. She steps up, settles beside him, her side brushing against his in the cramped space. She takes his hand, and squeezes; he squeezes back, a silent_ thank you_, and they sit there, neither speaking, the silence in the back of the ambulance edging towards uncomfortable as the air grows thicker.

The medic hurries, sensing the strange connection between these two, and neatly sutures the wound together, before covering it with gauze.

"Be careful; keep it dry," Castle recites before the medic can.

"Not your first time, I see," he responds.

"No."

The medic leaves them alone, with instructions to just sit for a few minutes. Beckett shuffles away, and moves to sit opposite him, to put a little space between them, ignoring her heart as it beats out a message in Morse code in her chest: _Kiss him._

"Close call, eh?" Castle asks.

He's joking again, a teasing sparkle in his eyes, so she knows the anesthetic has numbed the pain, the fear.

"Too close," she responds without a hint of humor. His hand is still tucked under hers, her fingers still curled over his palm, holding tight. The pull to lean in and press her lips to his proves too strong. Alone now, the sounds outside the ambulance fade. The sirens, the men securing the scene, checking over the building, the yelling, the commands, the chaos that's still going on out there peters out. "Thought I'd lost you," she admits softly, holding his gaze. Blood mars the side of his face, stains his shirt, reminds her again just how close they came.

She knows, as she takes it all in and allows her emotions to shine through in her eyes, that it wasn't just the wall of the bank that was destroyed today. They knocked out her own walls with that explosion. From his expression, he sees it too, feels this difference between them, the pull they can't fight anymore.

The air grows thicker, and stills. He's bridging the distance between them, leaning in; her eyes dip to his lips, and she parts her own in anticipation, before tearing her gaze back up to his as their lips connect. His lips are warm against her, softer than last time, less rushed - last time, that damn ruse, God she's thought about kissing these lips again so often since then. His fingers weave through her hair, still pulled back but looser now, and he deepens the kiss. Her fists gather the dusty material of his shirt, and she holds on, losing herself in him with each slow, almost exploratory, caress of his lips against hers. She feels it:_ life,_ in his soft, warm lips, the beat of his heart beneath a palm she now rests against his chest, the breath of him against her cheek as he exhales through his nose. He's alive, blood-stained and battle-scarred, but alive.

"Dad?"

Kate pulls back quickly, lips sliding off his as she turns to the voice that's interrupted them. Her palm drops from his chest, her other hand releases the tight clutch on his shirt, and she leans back a little.

He throws Kate a lop-sided grin before turning to his daughter - whose own face is caught somewhere between disapproval and embarrassment.

"Sorry," Alexis murmurs, before hastily adding, "Gram wants to head home."

He turns to Kate, and she finds herself forced to meet his eyes - she still can't meet Alexis' gaze though, even though she can feel the teen's eyes burning into her. "Am I free to go?" he asks.

She swallows, and forces a smile. "Not my decision to make," she reminds him. She gives Alexis a quick smile, and pushes to her feet. "Alexis, can you keep your dad company? I'll go clear his release."

"Sure," Alexis responds. She lifts an eyebrow at Kate before she turns back to her father, and damned if it didn't say everything the teen is holding back.

Kate has almost escaped, when Castle's hand reaches out and his fingers close around her wrist, halting her.

"After all this is over," he begins, his voice warm and melodious, "dinner at mine, to pick up where we've left off."

She glances down at his hand wrapped around her wrist; she moves her arm until her palm slides into his, and she squeezes his hand. "I'd like that," she tells him sweetly, and then she releases his hand, and exits the ambulance.

"You saw nothing, Alexis," Beckett hears Castle say as she walks back into the chaos to find the medic, and the teen's annoyed "Mmmhmmm," response firmly lets her know this isn't going to be easy. And that's okay, because she's ready now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: ****_Castle does hook up with Natalie Rhodes in "Nikki Heat"_**

* * *

"I know why you did this, and it's okay."

Castle shifted on the bed, the sheet sliding down as he moved, dragging lower down his body, revealing his chest, and hers. Natalie lay on her back, breasts, he now knew weren't real, still firm and round, nipples hardening in the cool bedroom air.

It wasn't his first run in with surgically altered breasts, but they had never been enjoyable for him. The moment he had cupped them in his hands he had known, and he'd almost pulled away from her. _Almost._ But they'd been too far gone by that stage, and he'd slammed his eyes shut and buried himself within her. Behind closed eyes he had tried to create more appealing - more familiar - smaller mounds beneath his hands. But the feel of them remained.

"So why did I do this?" he asked her, his eyes focusing on her flat stomach, flat from starvation, lacking the muscle definition that always showed up inside his head.

"You want to sleep with her, and this is the closest you can get," Natalie replied sagely.

"Her?"

"Detective Beckett."

"No," he said, too quickly. Her eyes met his and her raised eyebrows told him she wasn't buying it. He gave in. "Would you be offended if I said yes?"

"No," she said honestly. "I figured it out right from the start, from the first moment I met you both."

"I'm sorry."

Natalie shrugged, not needing an apology. "Did it work?" she asked. "Did you think I was her?"

"For a while."

"I'm not her."

"I know."

Natalie turned onto her side, breasts barely shifting, and he rolled to face her, reached up and let her dyed strands run between his fingers.

"I hope it helped," she said without a hint of regret. "I hope it makes the nights easier until you find the courage to ask her out."

Castle huffed out a forced laugh. "She's seeing someone."

"She would leave him for you," Natalie replied. "You think I don't see how she looks at you?"

"She's not ready yet."

"What is she? A turkey? Ask the woman out."

"This is not the conversation I expected to have after sex," Castle said dryly.

"Yeah, well, this is what you get when masturbatory fantasies come to life." Natalie's face softened as she took in the stress in Castle's features, the tightness of his mouth, the lines marring his forehead. "Oh my God," she said softly, "you're in love with her."

Castle dropped his hand from her curled tresses, and rolled heavily onto his back.

"I didn't realize it was quite that deep. I'm sorry," she said quickly, tugging the sheet with her as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed. She reached down for her panties, her jeans, and added, "I wouldn't have done this had I know it was love."

Castle let her pull the sheet off him, his heart so exposed now he didn't care about the rest of him. Sitting up, he asked, "You won't tell her-"

"I won't speak a word," Natalie assured him, tugging her clothes on and moving off the bed. She pulled her top on, and then leaned in to him, and placed a soft kiss to his down-turned lips. "I hope the next lips on yours are hers," she told him kindly. "Good night, Castle. I can show myself out."

He watched her leave, scrubbing a hand over his face as the front door closed. Disgusted at himself, his behavior, aware of how messed up the entire situation was, he moved off the bed with heavy limbs, and shuffled into his bathroom, to the shower. He let the water wash away the lingering scent of Natalie Rhodes, hot enough to burn the touch of her from his skin, hoping the steam might help cleanse his brain of the lingering visuals of the woman who was nothing but a lie.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Countdown post ep_. _What if Josh hadn't shown up at the precinct at the end? Going AU from Castle's line "I've been thinking…"_**

* * *

Beckett felt her smile growing as Castle fired off code words at Fallon's retreating form. The taste of beer lingered on her lips, and from the adrenaline still flowing through her she knew this wouldn't be a one bottle night. The warmth of his smile as he turned back to face her sent a surge of warmth through her teasing that perhaps it didn't have to be a lonely one either.

Castle breathed out in relief, his eyes shining. "Hell of a day, huh."

She could only shake her head at his words, and agreed, "Hell of a day." She waited, and the spark of hope flared so strong within her she knew, the second his head tilted and he blinked just a little slower, that it'd been visible in her eyes.

"You know," he began, his whole demeanor becoming a little softer, his voice a little lower, "I was thinking, I was thinking maybe..."

Kate watched him, the smile still playing on her lips, and raised her eyebrows to encourage him. "Yes?" she asked, when it seemed like his courage had failed him.

But he'd merely paused to take a breath. "Would you like to get a drink?" He chuckled, and added, "Away from here, I mean."

"I'd love to," she replied, letting the smile take over her entire face, light up tired eyed that had seem too much these past few days.

Castle nodded, pleased with her response, and offered her his arm. "Old Haunt?"

Wrapping her fingers around his elbow, she considered it briefly before shaking her head. "It's been a loud day," she began, "I was thinking some place quieter."

"Oh?"

"My place okay?"

Castle smiled. "It's perfect."

Silence fell between them as they made their way out of the precinct, their pace slow, everything about them quiet. The silence kept a slight distance between them, until they pushed through the main entry and the rush of cool night air blew through them. Their feet hit the sidewalk, and they both shivered, leaned just a little closer to one another. Beckett lifted her eyes and took in the city around them, all unchanged, no-one the wiser as to what had almost occurred today. No one aware of just how close they'd come... But she knew, and the man beside her knew, and an evening with someone who understood was what she needed tonight.

He opened the cab's door for her, and their silence remained, comfortable now, settling around them like a warm blanket during the ride to her apartment, lingering right up until they had entered her home, and closed the door.

"No plans with Josh tonight?" Castle asked, allowing the barest brush of his fingertips against her lower back as he followed her into her kitchen, breaking away to settle on a stool at the far side of the counter.

"We broke up." She kept her back to him while she collected a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine, moving slowly around the small space.

"Sorry."

She shrugged and turned back to him. "He stayed, and I thought we had a chance, but..."

"But?" Castle coaxed.

"It just wasn't working."

"Okay," he said. "It doesn't always work."

She watched as his face contorted from how stupid his words had sounded. She filled the wine glasses and gave him a soft smile. "I know."

"Better to recognize it sooner, rather than get married, and then have to divorce him." It had started out as a light comment, but his eyes had drifted as he'd spoken, and his words had hurtled him back to the past, where he'd become lost in a memory. Or two. He blinked out of it, and gave her a lop-sided grin, but his heart wasn't completely in it and his pain pushed through.

Beckett released a short mirthless puff of air through her nose. "Yes." She handed him a glass of white wine, and then clinked her glass to his. "So here's to saving the city."

Castle smiled. "To saving the city."

She sipped the wine, and stepped out from behind the counter, leading the way to her livingroom. The blinds were still up, and she stood beside the couch, staring out at the city that was almost lost. With the city noise muffled behind glass, the only sound she noticed was the rustle of Castle's clothing as he moved up to stand behind her.

"We see the ugly side of it so often I forget how beautiful it can be."

"It's easy to forget," Castle said in agreement, his tone low.

"It's easy to forget a lot of things."

He was silent, but she felt the heat from his body as he stepped closer to her. Her eyes met his in the reflection of the window, the intensity in his eyes clear in the glass before her. He was so close now she could lean back just a little and press her body to his. But she left the distance as it was. "We broke up," she said, her voice as even as she could manage, "because I had a boyfriend and I kissed another man."

"You told him about-"

"No," she interrupted. She hesitated then, sipped her wine, and shifted her gaze through his reflected eyes to the city beyond. "I almost died earlier," she continued in a more gentler tone. "But when I was wrapped in that blanket, waiting for you to regain consciousness, it wasn't his lips I wanted to kiss."

She heard the clink as the base of his wine glass was placed on her wooden coffee table, heard his slow, steady breathing as he returned to stand behind her, felt his large, warm palms as they came to rest on her hips. But he didn't turn her, didn't rush her in any way, just let his fingers curl at her waist, and waited.

"And I remembered that, when I was on the verge of losing consciousness, it wasn't my boyfriend I almost confessed my love to."

His fingers tightened on her waist, a squeeze to let her know he was listening, that he was still there.

"So I figured, maybe he shouldn't be my boyfriend. Maybe..."

"Yes?" he asked, his voice hesitant, but hopeful.

Turning in his arms, one hand curled tight around the wine glass, so tight she feared she might break the glass, she brought her other hand up and gently cupped his jaw. Her eyes met his, and she could feel her emotion threatening to spill from them and trail down her cheeks. Her gaze dipped, to his lips, parted and expectant; she lifted her eyes again, and locked them on his. Her own lips parted, she leaned in, and covered his mouth. Her lips pressed to his, soft and hesitant at first contact, and then firmer with a hint of impatience. He responded instantly, sucking her lower lip between his, his fingers sliding up beneath her shirt, burning a hot trail up the curve of her spine. She eased her hand across his cheek, to the nape of his neck, caressing his soft, short hair, and bringing his mouth harder to hers. Her other arm stayed pressed at her side, the wine glass almost slipping from her hand as he tugged her pelvis tight to his. His tongue pushed past hers, his hips thrust up, and she moaned into his mouth, the sound forming a low, desperate, "wait", and halting him.

"You okay?" he breathed against her mouth, holding her close.

Her eyes fluttered open, and a shy smile played on her lips. "Just give me a second."

His hands released her, and he followed her every move with a hint of fear in his glazed eyes as she stepped over to the coffee table. She put her glass down, and threw him a grin.

Both hands now free, she moved to stand before him, coming to rest between his slightly parted feet, and brought her hands up to his shirt. With slow, precise twists of her wrist, she eased each button through its hole, his eyes following each sweep of her fingers, each pinch, each slide. And then the lines in his forehead became just a little deeper, and she felt his held breath, and glanced up.

"This isn't another thing we're never going to talk about, is it?" His hands covered hers, stilling her movements. "Because if this is just one night, if that's all this is, if I'm expected to go back to normal after this, Beckett, Kate, I-"

She brushed her lips across his, pushed her tongue into his mouth, silenced him. When she pulled back, she said breathlessly, "Maybe this - maybe _we_ - won't work, maybe it will only be one night, but we won't know if we don't try."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he pulled her body flush to his. "I don't give up easily."

"I'll expect many attempts tonight alone," she replied, throwing him a saucy smile. Her expression grew serious then, and she added quietly, "But we keep it to ourselves."

He nodded. "So _we_ can talk about it, we just don't share it?"

"Eventually, yes," she promised. "But not just yet."

"Deal," he replied, before sliding his hot, open mouth to her neck, pulling her pelvis impossibly tight against his, and putting an end to decipherable sounds from their lips.

* * *

** I wrote this entire chapter with the Robyn & Röyksopp song 'Monument' on repeat. Guh, so good. If you like that kind of music, go check it out.**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Season One. Beckett's "Goddess in her hooha" friend is getting married, and Beckett's invited. She needs a date. An impressive date. A rich, handsome celebrit- Ohhh, CRAP!**_

* * *

Beckett was fuming. Even from a distance Castle had noticed it: her straight spine, the abuse the dry-erase board was taking from the pen she was stabbing at it with each letter she wrote. _Wrote?_ The word seemed too polite, too tame, for what she was currently doing. Castle did a quick recall of the previous day, anything he'd meant to do this morning but had forgotten- No, he was fine. Not pissed off at him. Good.

He ducked into the break room, and quickly made two cups of coffee, adding a little cinnamon to hers (because it couldn't hurt). Cups in hand, he slowly stepped over to her.

"Morning, Beckett," he announced, holding out the coffee cup to her.

She tore her eyes off the board, and dropped her gaze to the cup. "Thanks," she muttered, accepting it. She sipped, and closed her eyes, savoring the flavors.

"Everything okay?" he asked carefully.

Opening her eyes, she blew stray strands of short hair away from her cheek. "Fine," she replied, her tone terse.

"You seem-" But he was cut off as his eyes caught sight of Espo and Ryan behind her, shaking their heads vehemently, waving their hands in front of their faces to stop him. _Don't ask._ Got it. "So what's the case?" he asked, turning back to the board.

She huffed. "Same one as yesterday, Castle."

"Right," he replied. "Right." He sipped his coffee, and shifted his gaze over the angry words scrawled on the board, reminding himself of all they'd uncovered on the victim so far. The silence stretched, awkward, uncomfortable silence, and he was about to fill it, make some lame comment about the victim's hairstyle that was horribly inappropriate, when she saved them both.

"An old friend invited me to her wedding," she told him, her voice tight. "Since you asked and all."

He turned back to her in surprise. "And that's why you're upset?"

"No, that's not why I'm upset," she snapped. "I'm expected to take a date, a plus-one, Castle, and Carly's judgmental, so I can't just take anyone. Like I'm overwhelmed by choice," she said dryly. "Hard to take a date when you're single."

"So you're worried about having to go alone, and being judged for it."

"Kind of," she muttered.

"When is this wedding?"

Beckett swallowed thickly. "Tomorrow."

"Ouch."

"Tonight is the bachelorette party, and _oh yes_, I will be drilled on whom I'll be bringing." She lowered her chin, muttering, "And that won't be the worst thing about tonight."

"How could it be worse?"

Beckett glanced around, before stepping a little closer to him, and whispering, "Vajazzling."

He blinked furiously. "Ex- Excuse me?"

She nodded, leaning back, a truly terrified look on her face. "That's Carly's idea of a good time, apparently. No strippers for Carly, oh no. Va-Jazz-Ling."

"For … all who attend?"

"Mmmhmmmm," she replied. "Gotta have a glittery hooha for a wedding, apparently."

Castle almost choked on his own saliva. "I-You-" He slumped into the nearest chair, and groaned, overwhelmed by the words flowing so freely from Beckett's mouth, the images they were creating in his mind. From the reassuring pat on the back from Ryan he now understood why they'd tried to stop him: they'd clearly already made the mistake of asking.

At least he wasn't alone with these glittering images sparkling in his brain.

"So who you taking, Beckett?" Ryan asked her.

"To the vajazzling?" Castle squeaked.

"To the wedding," she clarified, rolling her eyes.

"If it's just plus-one duties, I'm free," Castle announced without any thought.

"Excuse me?"

He shrugged. "Tomorrow night, I'm free."

Her jaw clenched. "Of course you are," she ground out.

"I'm free tonight too, you know, should you need-"

"Shut up, Castle," she warned, the pen connecting hard with the board, all three men flinching.

* * *

She made it to exactly lunchtime the following day before she caved. Striding back to the car after questioning the father of the victim, she slammed the door closed, turned to him with a hard glare, and said, "Because I'm desperate, and you're somewhat successful, would you be my plus-one?"

"Somewhat?" he argued.

"Castle."

Pretending to think about her question, he took a moment, mainly to watch her fume, and then agreed, "Sure. It'll be fun!" His eyes dipped, lower than even he had intended. "So, how was last night? Feeling… Vajazzled?"

She grumbled something unintelligible - he caught the word 'castrate' and swallowed thickly - before she pulled out into the traffic, barely missing another car.

He shut up, and gripped his seat-belt a little tighter, wondering if the airbags in this car were even functional anymore.

* * *

He knocked on her door ten minutes earlier than agreed upon, fixing his tie while he waited. Beckett opened the door, and swiftly took his breath away. She stood before him, in a long, sleek purple dress, slit up to her hip. She greeted him, stepped away to retrieve her purse, and as she turned all he could see was leg. Long, smooth, endless leg. And all he could think about was what was just, barely, hidden beneath that fabric.

"Stop picturing it, Castle," she warned, meeting him at the door once more.

"What?" he asked, innocent.

Beckett huffed out a sigh. "Let's just get this over with."

"Nice dress."

"Thanks," she murmured. "Carly chose it."

"So tell me about this woman, she sounds, uh, lovely."

Closing her apartment door, she walked at his side to the elevator, trying to find the words. "She's something alright." Taking a breath, she said, "We were friends in high school, still catch up occasionally when she's in the city. Carly travels a lot."

"And Mr Carly?"

Beckett shrugged. "Some Count she met along the French Riviera."

"I'm sorry, some _what_?" he asked, shocked by her language.

"Count, Castle. A Count," she enunciated.

"Ah. Gotcha."

"Carly leads an interesting life."

"Sounds like it."

"I don't want to seem boring," she said softly, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

"That's why you're so upset about the invitation?" he asked.

"It's always a competition with Carly."

"Boring characters don't make good novels," he told her gently. "Trust me, Detective, you are far, far from boring."

She gave him a tight smile. "Thank you."

"You care what this friend thinks?"

"No," she said too quickly. "Yes, a little bit. Silly, right."

"Yes."

She huffed out a breath, but smiled. "Let's just get this over with."

* * *

"Late for a wedding," he murmured as he handed the car keys over to the valet and stood outside the lavish venue.

"Because it's just the reception," Beckett told him. "We missed the actual ceremony."

"Couldn't get it off work?"

"Didn't try," she admitted. "An hour or two here will be enough."

"I'm curious as to why you even bothered."

Beckett shrugged. "Despite it all, Carly was a good friend at high school, and just because we may have drifted a little now doesn't mean I should cut ties completely."

Offering her his elbow, he nodded. "Ready to show me off then?"

"Oh God," she whimpered, but she accepted his arm, let him walk them up to the huge wooden doors.

* * *

"Kate!" Carly exclaimed when they entered, embracing her in a half-hug, mindful of both their dresses, makeup. "So glad your boss let you leave."

Kate smiled as she lightly returned the hug. "Sorry we missed the ceremony, I'm sure it was beautiful."

"It was," Carly agreed. Pulling back, her eyes fell on Castle. "Mr Castle," she said, offering him her hand. He took it, like the gentleman he was, kissed the back of it with a soft sweep of his lips, and gave her a mega-watt smile.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said suavely, causing Beckett to subtly roll her eyes.

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine," Carly flirted. "I am quite the fan."

"Really?" he asked, sneaking a glance at Beckett out of the corner of his eye.

"Really," Carly confirmed, her eyes skimming up Castle's body, admiring the way the suit fit him.

Beckett frowned at the two people before her, blatantly checking one another out. Ignoring the jealousy rising within - ignoring it, because she wasn't jealous - she curled her fingers around Castle's elbow, and squeezed tightly. "Oh, Carly, I see people trying to get your attention." She dug her nails a little harder into Castle's arm, and said, "We'll just head to the bar." She forced a smile, and tugged - firmly.

"Right!" he said, snapping his gaze from Carly and her wandering eyes. "Thirsty," he said lamely. "We are, I mean."

"Don't be a stranger," Carly said, eyes sweeping over Castle's form once more. To Kate she said, "We must catch up properly before you leave."

"We will," Beckett said, and then dragged Castle away.

"Jealous?" he asked.

"Married woman," Beckett reminded him through clenched teeth.

"Boy you're cranky tonight, is it because you're irritated with-"

"So help me, God, Castle, if you say 'vajazzle' I _will_ shoot you."

"I was going to say 'me', but okay, if that's what's bothering you. And I can imagine-"

"Shut. Up."

* * *

There wasn't enough vodka behind the bar to get through tonight. Not nearly enough. But there was whiskey and tequila and wine and Hell, she'd mix it all together, like a college kid playing Circle of Death, it if she had to - just to get drunk enough to have no memories of this night by the morning.

"Slow down," he told her, watching as she threw back a shot of.. He didn't even know anymore. He'd lost track and they'd been here less than thirty minutes.

"Not gonna happen," she told him. "Keep up."

"I'm driving," he said sadly.

"Get a cab, pick the car up tomorrow."

He watched her, and then shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"Between your mood, and Mrs Count's wandering eyes, I think this _one_ will do me just fine."

"I'm not gonna shoot her, Castle."

"No, but I'm not so sure you're not gonna throw a punch by the end of the night."

"Over you?" She should have been insulted, but instead she just smirked. "Doubtful."

He turned to face her, shuffling in, getting into her personal space. His lips brushed her ear, and he murmured, "Admit it, you were jealous."

His hand rested on her thigh, his fingers teased the thin material barely covering her leg, and she lost the ability to think. "No," she forced out.

"Liar," he hissed, his breath warm against her cheek.

Her tension showed in her jaw, and she took a step back, away from the temptation. "You don't need to hover around me all night," she warned.

"I'm quite comfortable here."

She put her back to the bar, and scanned the room, avoiding Castle's eyes.

"Why are you here?"

Beckett felt her shoulders slump. "For Carly," she replied, before throwing back another shot.

* * *

The reception was winding down; they'd missed the food, the speeches, having arrived in time for just the drinking and dancing.

"Listen," she told him. "The appearance has been made, you've been shown off, you can go if you want."

But he stayed at her side, watching the crowd with her.

He placed his glass down a moment later, and held a hand out to her. She eyed it warily.

"Shall we dance?"

With a sigh, she said, "May as well." She placed her hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor.

He walked them into the middle of the couples, hidden from Carly's curious eyes. Curling one hand at her waist, his fingers sliding against the slinky material, he brought her body to his, lightly took her hand, and smiled.

"Relax," he told her, her body rigid against his.

She didn't.

Sliding his hand around to her back, he let his fingertips dance across the bare skin the low cut of the dress revealed, easing the tension out of her spine with gentle rotations. "I'm not pretending to know you, Detective, but this doesn't seem like you, to be so worried about one person's opinion," he said, his voice low, close to her ear.

"It's different with Carly," she replied, her voice thick.

"Why?"

"It just always has been."

"And this elusive Count?"

"This is her second marriage, Castle. We haven't been introduced because she's eying you up as husband number three."

"And you're friends with this woman?"

Beckett sighed, and shuffled in closer, the fight draining out of her. "She was there for me when my mom died," she said softly.

"Oh," Castle said, starting to get it now.

"She was the first person I told; she dropped _everything_, without a second thought, came to the funeral. We may be living very different lives now, but she helped me keep my head above water back then. I'll never forget that."

In a gentle voice, he said, "I understand."

"I just got frustrated by the whole plus-one situation, and then last night I saw _things_," she hissed. "Things I will never erase from my brain."

"So, you didn't-"

"No, Castle," she told him firmly. "I did not participate in any bedazzling of _any_ kind." Pulling back, she gave his shoulder a light whack, before settling back in, her body more relaxed now.

"Ow," he moaned. "Pity though."

"Stop it," she warned lightly.

"Just saying."

Her body molded to his as they moved across the dance floor. More pliant now, he dipped her gently, a grin on his face as he eased her back up.

She chuckled. "Smooth, Castle."

"I know right." He pulled her against him again, and she pressed her body to his willingly, her chin resting lightly on his shoulder, fingers laced with his.

"You hungry?" he asked suddenly.

She smiled against him. "Starving."

"What do you say we go congratulate the happy couple, and then head off, grab some food to go along the way. I'll take you home, and you tell me all about high school Carly and why you both became friends in the first place."

"You buying?"

"Of course."

"Then I'm in."

He clasped her hand and led her off the floor, and back to where Carly, and a man he guessed was the Count, stood looking positively bored.

"Time to reign in that jealousy, Beckett," he teased.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, but deep down she knew jealousy had been exactly what she'd been feeling. But he never needed to know that.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Undead Again_ Post-Ep**

**Prompt: Fic written around blue, and the letter L.**

**(This is an experiment in style)**

* * *

She misses him; more than that, she misses them, misses who they were, and who they could be. How do you miss something you've never had? But she has dreamed of it, woken with salacious images in her mind and a throb between her legs. She has felt the need for him on lonely, cold nights alone in her apartment, and pictured him as she took care of it.

The radio makes her miss him more; it's out to get her while she drives home, insisting on a string of love songs she can't escape no matter how many times she punches the button for a new station. There is no joy through the airwaves tonight. Lost love; the unrequited kind; a life so seemingly empty without the one it craves. She slams a fist against the buttons, silencing the pained laments of Joni Mitchell, but the limpid lyrics of the foggy lullaby linger in her mind, the music playing to the rhythm of the windshield wipers as they struggle to keep up with the deluge outside.

She had stayed at the precinct, long after he had left; it's late now, approaching midnight, the sky a steel blue. Zombies shuffle through her memory as she navigates the dark, wet, city streets, a case that seemed to heal them somewhat, but of what affliction she can only guess.

Languescence sets in, and the sound of bricks hitting concrete, the taste of dust on her tongue, tells her she is ready. She's too tired to fight this anymore.

I don't know why we're broken, she tells him the moment he opens the door, but I just want to fix us.  
Her words are not poetic, not as well-crafted as his own will be.

She hadn't phoned, had just taken a chance that at midnight he might still be up. Writing, perhaps, creating an apocalyptic tale inspired from the day's events.

He opens the door wider, nods for her to enter, and only once he has led her into his study does he speak.

He speaks of her shooting, of the words he uttered, the ones he knows she remembers. He tells her about an interrogation he viewed from the observation room, how words spoken by her made him feel betrayed. He admits defeat.

He reminds her of her lies, and lays his heart bare, and she steps ever closer to him, bridging the distance, until he utters, I love you, Kate, and her hands frame his face, and her body almost touches his.

If only there were enough ways to say sorry that might make up for words spoken in recovery, so long ago now. Perhaps it wouldn't matter, because all she can say is, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Castle.

The tears fall from her eyes without her permission, leaving trails through her makeup, but her hands remain on his face, holding him to her, keeping him from walking away. He can't leave her.

His hands move to hers, and he curls his fingers around her palms. He doesn't pull her away, just holds her hands to his face, and tells her, I cut a deal.

She frowns, but holds his gaze. He speaks again, of files, and phone calls, and shadowy meetings in parking garages. Anger rises, and she tries to take a step back, but he holds her in place. She can't walk away either.

I did it because I love you.

She shakes her head, again tries to break free. They both know if she really wanted to she would be out of his apartment by now, and he would be doubled over in agony.

I love you, Kate.

And through her anger, she understands.

Resigned, she hangs her head, and closes her eyes. His hands release hers, only to slide around her body, and bring them together until no space exists between them. They fit together; her cheek rests on his shoulder, her lips graze his neck, and he buries his nose into her hair, and they just breathe for a moment. Forgiveness is found in an embrace, and not in words.

What do you need? he asks her, his voice low, muffled by her hair.

She hears his words, pulls back, and whispers, You.

His lips descend on hers, warm and firm, and she sighs into his mouth through parted lips, and grips at his shirt. She lifts her gaze, and his cobalt eyes flare with need; she raises her leg, wraps it around his thigh, and brings him closer to her. Too long has she wanted this, perhaps since that first meeting, that promise of a debriefing, but she'll never be the first to admit to that.

She leads him to his bedroom, clothes stripped along the way, but it is he who eases her down on the bed, and covers her body with his. Flesh against flesh, he begins a journey, presses kisses to her inner-thigh, flicks the tip of his tongue across the dampness of her satin underwear, explores her hips, her waist, her stomach with his lips alone, and then finds the pink puckered skin between her breasts. His thumbs slide across her nipples; her back arches, and she grips tightly at the cerulean comforter as he lavishes soothing kisses to the remains of the day he almost lost her. Lips find lips, fingers tangle in hair, and she won't cry now, but the emotions radiating between them almost overwhelms her. He kisses her gently, slowly, taking his time to learn how her body responds. And between these moments, he murmurs his love. And between these moments, he eases her panties down.

And when he fills her, and looks down at her in wonder, she almost breathes the words back, but they're lost to a sob, unable to articulate when it feels this good.

Eyes locked, she moves with him, slides her legs higher, crosses her ankles high against his lower-back, and they rock together.

Her hands find his face again, her lips meet his, and she breathes her orgasm into him.

He won't tell this story, of the night they let go, how the intimacy almost brought him to tears, and how only when dawn cast orange hues into the room did they finally sleep. She won't tell this story, of the night they healed, when lies were forgiven, and when trust was built up where a wall had once stood strong.


	6. Chapter 6

**Prompt: [random list of 5 things that fic must include]:**  
**Torch, ladle, aeroplane, domestic rat, arrow.**

**Set: Early S2, between The Double Down and Inventing the Girl**

* * *

The smell of winter was in the air; it had cooled quickly, and the arid taste of wood-burning fires scorched the tip of his tongue and only made him crave a warm, cozy setting more. He found no beauty in the reds and oranges that had diffused through the once so vibrant green leaves, and thought only of how they dried and crinkled and fell from the trees; the brittle crunch underfoot the only remains of a decayed summer. The almost skeletal trees sent a shiver through him, and he pressed his hands deeper in his coat pockets. Contrails in the patches of clear sky above reminded him it was unfathomably cold up there - and he felt no warmer.

"Catching flies, Castle?" Beckett sassed, her voice drawing him back.

He closed his mouth quickly, and shook his head; he met her eyes but didn't dare look down. "No, just thinking."

"You need your mouth open to do that?"

"Helps the steam escape."

Her lips parted, her eyebrows lifted, and she nodded just once, no comeback necessary. "Thoughts about the victim?"

"The weather, actually," he admitted.

Dryly, she replied, with just a hint of boredom, "Distracted, again. I should be less surprised." A tilt of her head, a slight swivel of her hips, she turned her back to him, and returned her attention to the body before them, prone on the damp dew-slicked, blood-stained grass. She crouched beside Lanie and conducted her own visual exam while the M.E filled her in.

He watched them for a moment, observed the interaction, and remembered the body as he had first laid eyes on it after approaching the scene; he listened as information was bounced back and forth between the detective and the M.E, storing it all away in his brain for later, but his eyes were soon focused once again in the trees above.

* * *

"Leaves are changing," he said, walking back towards Beckett's cruiser, his strides matching hers.

"Have been for a while," she reminded him. Eying him curiously, she asked, "You okay, Castle?"

"Hmmm?"

"You don't have to come to every crime scene, y'know." She glanced across the roof of the car, pausing before unlocking it, as she asked, "Death not interesting enough for you anymore?"

He lifted his head, met her eyes, and announced in a rueful voice, "Alexis turns sixteen tomorrow."

"Okay," Beckett replied slowly, forehead furrowed slightly from his words.

The car unlocked, and she left him standing out in the cold. He blinked, and then moved quickly to open the door, but the interior was no warmer than outside. "Just thinking about the passage of time a lot today," he told her while adjusting his seat belt, whether she cared for more information or not. Her puzzled expression lingered, so he added, "My little girl is growing up."

"Little girls have a habit of doing that."

"You could be more concerned for my state of mind."

Beckett raised her eyebrows. "I've been concerned for your state of mind since the day you sat opposite me in an interrogation room and asked for copies of the crime scene photos."

He lit up briefly at the memory. "You could have made Patterson very jealous that day."

Kate shrugged. "Not really on my bucket list."

"Ouch. I'm already down about getting old and then you bring that up."

"Oh, so that's the problem? Not the fact your six year old is suddenly sixteen?"

"Both. It's been a simultaneous event, Alexis growing up and my own journey towards death."

"That's almost depressing. Except I was just at the scene of a murder, so the dead guy in the grass kind of wins." His silence was enough to make her almost worry about him for a moment. "Wait, you're actually freaking out over this?"

He angled the rear-view mirror towards him and started to examine his hair. She angled it back and shot him a glare. "Don't mess with my mirrors, Castle."

Turning to her, he dipped his head and said, "It's thinning, isn't it."

"Your hair is fine, Castle."

He lifted his head. "Fine?" he asked in concern. "Thin?"

"I meant it's the same it's been since I met you," she growled. "Although I might have a few more grey hairs." She watched him run his hand through his hair one final time, and smiled when he checked his fingers for loose strands. "Alexis turns sixteen tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he confirmed.

"Any plans for tonight?"

"Other than wallowing in self-pity? No."

"Good."

"Why?" he asked, his attention off his hair and now on her.

Checking her mirrors - and repositioning one slightly - Kate eased the Crown Vic into the busy Manhattan street, a dark spot in a sea of yellow taxi cabs, and replied, "Wait and see."

She dared to glance at him, long enough to see his features had lifted, to see the curious smile tugging at his lips and the light of intrigue in his eyes. "In the mean time, up for solving the case?"

"I've got a fifty that says it's a mugging gone wrong."

She let out a soft grunt of annoyance at the reminder of their last case.

* * *

Messy. The word dominated the day. The crime scene, the victim's background, his liver…

By eight they had an ID, and too many unreliable witnesses with too many contrasting stories.

"People don't care when the victim is homeless," Beckett lamented, eyes blurring the green words on the dry-erase board until the letters, and numbers, and arrows, and circles became angry waves of nonsense. Recapping the pen, she let it drop into the tray, and turned to Castle. "Let's call it a night."

Leaning against her desk, lukewarm mug of coffee in his hands, he said, "When you asked if I had plans, I didn't envision this." He looked down in disgust at the liquid in the cup, and set it to the side.

"I was thinking more along the lines of buying you a drink at a little bar I know."

He perked up immediately. "Lead the way."

* * *

He followed her out of the warmth of the precinct and into a bleak, hazy city, tall buildings shrouded by the threat of winter. They dodged puddles, and strode along sidewalks that were black with autumn rain. What had fallen during the day had now subsided to just a light misting, barely dampening their hair and clothes.

"How far?" he asked.

But she had already stopped.

He moved to her side and cast his eyes up at the building before them, familiar to him, by name, reputation. "I thought this place was shut down for health violations."

Beckett smiled. "In the Seventies," she replied with a short huff of a laugh. "A pet rat, a few roaches, and a case of dysentery, all unrelated - or so the story goes."

"Delightful."

"Then it was torched in the early Eighties, and rebuilt soon after," she continued. "I've been coming here since I was-" Beckett frowned, and then shook her head, "well, much too young now that I think back. It's my go-to place after a rough day." Opening the door, she gestured for him to enter. "Trust me, you need this place tonight."

It touched him, to be introduced to this small part of Kate Beckett's world, so he stepped out of the cold, not knowing what to expect-

- and found himself surprised nonetheless.

It was small, but bright, with wood paneling and wallpaper. A decorative fireplace glowed orange in a corner, surrounded by well-worn leather chairs, but the real warmth came from the smiles and the greetings that surrounded them as they moved deeper into the establishment. Kate Beckett was much-loved here. Passing by, Beckett graced the bartender with a grin, and held up two fingers. Two of her usual, whatever that was. Another piece of the Beckett puzzle about to slot into place. It could have been his own birthday for the gifts she was giving him now. He allowed her to lead the way, to a small table at the back, almost hidden away.

"Not the kind of place I imagined you would frequent," he admitted as they sat down.

"You expected a biker bar?" Before he could answer, she warned, "Don't you dare say strip joint."

His mouth dropped open.

"Didn't fill your quota of flies this morning, Castle?"

He closed his mouth again, and shook his head to clear it. "I wasn't going to suggest either of those. But this place is just so-"

"English?"

"That's it exactly." He took it all in, and then exclaimed, "The Punchbowl and Ladle!"

"The what now?"

"I was in Cornwall, in England, on a book tour, a few years back. We stopped at a little place, with a thatched roof, resident poodle, and the interior here reminds me of it: The Punchbowl and Ladle."

"Katya." The bartender smiled at Beckett as he placed a drink before her, and she avoided Castle's raised eyebrows at the name. "And for your friend," he finished, resting a pint glass on a coaster in front of Castle.

Kate gave him a warm smile, and nodded. "Thank you, Jasper."

He left them, and Castle turned to Kate in interest. "Explain to me why a man with a thick English accent just called you Katya."

Swallowing a mouthful of the ale, and, in an accent not her own but one he had heard before, she said, "I was nineteen, planning a semester in Kiev, and my ID was fake." In her normal voice, she added, "And none of that information leaves your mouth, or ends up in a book, okay?"

It took self-control, more than he realized he was capable of, to not mention how sexy the accent was, or the fact he was remembering her scantily-clad, her red bra peeking through. Instead, he focused on what she had told him, and asked, "And he's never questioned it?"

She hid a smile behind her pint glass, and said, "I fake American accent to fit in." In a serious tone, in her own accent again, she added, "I don't usually bring anyone here, Castle. This place is my solace."

He wouldn't ruin all she was giving him with his uncensored thoughts. "Thank you for bringing me here," he said solemnly.

"Don't expect it to be a habit; this is my place."

No, he wouldn't ruin this place for her. "I understand."

* * *

He matched her speed, downing his ale in time with her, ready for a second round when she was. He filled her in on his plans for Alexis' party, his eyes growing hazy; before his mood could shift, she reached across the table, and smoothed a wayward strand of his hair down. He watched her silently, and only once she pulled back, a sheepish smile playing on her lips, did he ask, "Thinning?"

"Not at all," she promised.

"Good."

She tucked her own hair behind her ears, fussed with it a little, only stopping when he reached over and smoothed a section between his fingers. "No greys," he promised. Her eyes met his, and his hand stilled, the strands still caught between his fingers. Frozen, leaning slightly across the table, the sleeves of his shirt brushing the sticky surface, he held her gaze, almost choking on his own saliva when her eyes dipped to his lips.

Her eyes flicked back up to his, wider now, almost scared, but she didn't pull back.

He had too.

This was her place.

He let the tresses slip from his fingers, and, with a sad smile playing on his lips, leaned back into his chair. "I should go," he said, regret lacing his tone.

She nodded, but the disappointment that flashed through her eyes didn't go unnoticed. Her chair squeaked against the wooden floor as she pushed it back to stand, and he slid out from his own chair, from where it had been wedged between the back wall and the table.

"I'll catch a cab."

"I'll wait with you," she told him.

"We could share?"

"I think I'm going to stay a little longer," Beckett said, her voice soft. She walked ahead of him, getting to the bar first to settle the tab, before following Castle out. She wouldn't be drinking any more tonight.

"Wish Alexis a happy birthday from me," she told him.

He buttoned his coat, pulling it tighter against him to ward off the chill, but grateful the rain had stopped. "I will," he promised. He turned to hail a cab, feeling lighter now, feeling like he could tackle the approaching new day with the same level of enthusiasm and joy as his daughter. "And thank you, again, for bringing me here." He turned back to her as the cab pulled up, and smiled. "All your secrets are safe."

He opened the cab door, but she stopped him before he could step away, and when he turned to question her she leaned in and brushed a ghost-like kiss to his cheek. Her eyes caught his as she pulled back, and she gave him a soft smile, before turning away, and striding back into the safety of the bar.

And when he eased into the back of the cab, his cheek still tingling from where her lips had rested, he felt like a teenager again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Set Pre-series/Season 1**

**Prompt: What if Beckett had been the arresting officer when Castle was caught stealing the police horse in the nude?**

* * *

She remembers him; how could she forget? Recollection had flared in his eyes at the book launch party, and she steels herself now before entering the interview room.

"Mister Castle, you've got quite a rap sheet for a best-selling author. Disorderly conduct, resisting arrest..."

"Boys will be boys," he says with a shrug and a wry smile. Looking up at her from where he sits, he says, "You missed the best one."

"None of these are anything to be proud of," she reminds him. She reads through, and her eyes widen, and anger flares, as she remembers. "Yet every time the charges were dropped." She sits, as unimpressed with his antics now as she was back then.

She gets him to focus, long enough to introduce him to the case, the victim. But the moment he mentions the size of his claims, she finds heat rising in her cheeks - and he notices.

"But you'd know that, wouldn't you?" He watches her for a moment, and she feels like she's the one being questioned, before he adds, "Officer Beckett, wasn't it?"

* * *

Rookie hazing, that's what this was. "C'mon, Royce, you're just messing with me right?"

"Sorry, kid, but this one is all yours." He gestured for her to step forward. "Make me proud."

Setting her lips in a tight, straight line, she asked, "Know anything about horses?"

"No," Royce told her, but damn if he didn't sound like he was enjoying this.

"Fantastic," she muttered.

She took in the scene before her: the police horse she had to wrangle, the naked man on its back she had to arrest - who looked suspiciously like an author she read - and the growing crowd of on-lookers.

He had fine control of the animal, she had to admit, keeping it as a slow, steady walk through the park. She moved up alongside the large thoroughbred, her badge in her hand; she looked up, and ordered, "NYPD. Stop the horse."

The man turned, and looked down at her, and she sighed. Dammit, it actually was Richard Castle. He eased the animal to a stop, and grinned. "Caught me."

She closed her fingers around the reins as they dangled loosely, and tugged them out of his grasp. "You're under arrest for theft of police property," she announced. "Dismount."

"I was just borrowing him, I swear," he told her, grasping the pommel, before sliding his feet from the stirrups, and swinging a leg over.

She kept her eyes fixed solely on his face while he got down, but they drifted just enough to allow her to cop an eyeful of his anatomy as he swung his leg over the horse's rump, and she suppressed the impressed smirk, schooled her features, and looked him square in the eyes.

"Other people have to ride on that saddle," she reminded him once his bare feet were on the ground.

He stood before her, and only grinned at her in response, and as he exhaled she smelled the alcohol on his breath. Brilliant. Her eyes, her traitorous eyes, wanted that eyeful again, wanted to dip slightly and sneak a quick peek. But she kept her ice-cold exterior, stayed in control, held up her cuffs and fixed him with a hard glare. "Turn around," she ordered. "Hands behind your back." As he did what she requested, she asked, "Any ID?"

"In my pants."

She snapped the cuffs on his wrists, and rolled her eyes as he make a sound of enjoyment. "Of course it is"

"Name?"

"Richard Castle," he told her, a little too proud. "And you are? Officer?"

He already knew her first name, but if he remembered he didn't make it known. Just two weeks prior she had stood in front of him, handed over a book, and told him her first name. She didn't know what pissed her off more: that she had even wasted her time, or that he didn't remember her now. She turned him back around, holding his eyes fiercely with her own, one hand still holding the reins, the other wrapped around his elbow, her hold on the horse much kinder than the one on him. "Beckett."

"You have gorgeous eyes, Beckett," he announced, leaning in and breathing vodka fumes into her face.

Two weeks ago she would have been flattered; she scrunched up her nose a little, and reminded him, "You're under arrest, Mister Castle-"

"It won't hold," he interrupted her.

"We'll see about that." She tugged him towards a grinning Royce, shaking her head at him, silently warning him not to say a word.

"Where are your pants?" she asked Castle.

"About five blocks that way," the writer said, gesturing behind them.

"Can we book him without them?" she asked Royce.

"Oooh," Castle replied. "Like what you see, Beckett?"

"No, just want to get this over with quickly," she growled.

"Sorry, kid," Royce told her. "Better pick up his clothes too."

"You new at this?" Castle asked her, ducking his head as she shoved him into the back of the police car.

"Shut up." She slammed the door, and turned to Royce. "And the horse?"

He pointed behind her, and she turned to find an officer walking towards them. "Reunited, and no longer our problem."

She handed the reins over, and then slid into the front of the car. Without turning, she waited for Royce to start the engine, and asked the man behind her, "Alright, address for your pants?"

* * *

"It's Detective Beckett now," she reminds him, brushing the memories from her mind, focusing on the Tisdale case, and on getting this man out of her hair as quickly as possible. She pushes a crime scene photo towards him, of the body, and waits for his reaction.

"Flowers for your Grave," he murmurs, surprised by what he sees.

"And this is how we found Marvin Fisk," she tells him.

"Right out of Hell Hath no Fury."

"Looks like I have a fan."

"Yeah, a really deranged fan."

"Oh, you don't look deranged to me," he says smoothly.

She blinks in surprise. "What?"

"Tell me, Detective, did you know who I was when you asked me to slide off the back of that police horse, or did you run out the next day and devour my novels?" She opens her mouth to defend herself, but he continues, "Hell Hath no Fury? Angry Wiccans out for blood? Come on, only hard-core Castle groupies read that one. So which was it, Detective?"

She narrows her eyes, shakes her head at him, and continues asking him about the case, desperate to once again get it over with. She'd put up with crap from her fellow officers for weeks after news of the naked horseback arrest got around. The sooner she got him out of here, the less flak she'd take from those who remember that incident. "Do any of these groupies ever write you letters?" But her voice falters, she can't meet his eyes, and dammit he knows he's winning this.

There are hints of champagne on his breath while he speaks, and it keeps sparking images of him, naked -

"Do you know you have gorgeous eyes?"

She snaps back, and scowls. Yeah, he might have mentioned that once before. She wraps it up quickly, puts distance between them, and stalks off.

She might be a little bit flattered, if she wasn't still pissed off with him for being her first arrest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Prompt: **_**After "Boom", Beckett stays with the Castle family a little longer.**_

**(POV changes in here that hopefully aren't too jarring.)**

**Fic picks up about a week into Beckett's stay at the loft. Post-ep for Boom. **

* * *

_The morning after_

"Dad?" Alexis stops outside the empty guest room on her way down to breakfast, the bed made-up, all signs of its previous occupant gone, and frowns up at her father. "Where's Detective Beckett?"

Castle glances into the room, regret swirling in the dark pit of his stomach, his heart a little heavier. "She mentioned having found a place," he lies.

"A new apartment?" Alexis asks. She falls into step beside her father as he begins to walk towards the stairs at the end of the hall.

"I'm not sure, sweetie, but she has a place to live."

"I thought she'd say goodbye," Alexis tells him, a hint of sadness in her tone.

"I'm sure she'll stop by after work," he lies again.

Truth is, he doesn't expect she will. Isn't even sure if he's welcome at the precinct today. He's staying away, he'll get some writing down, channel all his stupid behavior, and her frustrating responses, into Nikki and Rook. Between the two of them they've done a fantastic job of royally fucking everything up; she almost died a week ago, but now it feels like he's lost her for good.

* * *

_Previous evening_

Case closed, Beckett sits on the couch, bare feet curled up under her, hot chocolate cradled between her palms, her hair, still damp from the shower, loose and drying in the warm room.

Each night spent in this loft has relaxed her a little more; her apartment was reduced to ashes, her life under threat, yet coming back - home - to Castle's loft every evening has been like a warm security blanket wrapping snugly around her. Each evening here has left her feeling more welcome, more comfortable; each evening spent with this family has brought her even closer to them.

But she needs something to pull her back, to tug her out of it. It's time to find her own place, even though her own is still smoldering in her mind. She had only ever intended to spend a night; Castle had insisted she stay the week. Now, here she is, getting entirely too used to spending her evenings eating dinner with this family. Entirely too used to Castle's warm, comforting presence, sitting beside him on the couch, their new evening ritual, hot chocolate and conversation.

"Tonight we break out the good stuff," Castle announces, pushing himself off the couch, and moving into the kitchen.

She looks up and smiles at his retreating form. "Oh? And what's that?"

She expects wine. She doesn't expect him to hold up a jar of-.

"Nutella?"

"You haven't had hot chocolate until you've had it made this way."

"Might be too indulgent," she says, a small smile playing on her lips.

"No such thing," he tells her. "But, if it is, after the last few days? You deserve it."

He mixes two mugs, and then carries them over to the couch. He places his own on the coffee table, and swaps her regular drink for the new one, before sitting down next to her. He doesn't even try to keep space between them, just plops himself down at her side, his arm brushing hers. She has noticed that too, these past few nights here, inch by inch, the space between them has lessened. Until now, now he's pressed up against her like this is what they do.

She doesn't shift away, she allows herself to be pressed against his side, but she does raise an eyebrow, to show she has noticed. When she turns to him, there's a far-away look in his eyes, a haze of sadness. "Oh, don't tell me, you're missing Jordan's smartboard already?"

He turns to her then, a small smirk lifting his features. "She left, and it felt like we lost twenty years. It's like the stone age back there," he laments.

She resists the urge to elbow him for that. "You managed before," she reminds him.

"Yeah well I didn't know what I was missing."

She smiles around the rim of her hot chocolate as she sips it. Now that she's experienced the indulgence of nutella in her mug she may never be able to switch back. So she understands - kind of.

"Like your drink," he begins, and she swallows quickly and turns to him, momentarily surprised. "Now you've had nutella, try and tell me you'll be able to go back to regular."

"Uh," she hesitates, still taken back by his uncanny ability to get inside her head. "I'll be able to go back," she lies. She has to be able to go back, because soon - maybe tomorrow - she'll have to find somewhere else to live. And it will be like her regular hot chocolate compared to the indulgent nutella of the loft.

"What if you didn't have to?"

She swallows thickly, and then freezes, unable to respond when she has no idea what they're even talking about anymore.

"Just pick up some nutella on your way to work tomorrow, and then you can have it whenever you want," he continues.

He's talking about such innocent things, and she's quietly, but frantically, unraveling inside. "Yeah," she manages to agree, around a constricted throat and dry lips.

She is definitely, absolutely, losing her mind - but all she can think is how easy it could be to take the next step with him, and how damn good he looks in the dark blue shirt, how it brings out his eyes, how the smooth, thin material wraps around his biceps, how good he'd look out of it.

Her control, inhibitions, mind - evening by evening she's losing them all.

Placing her mug on the table, she almost almost spills it in her haste. She steadies it and stands. "I'm gonna head up to bed," she tells him. "Night, Castle."

"Yeah," he replies, his tone holding traces of confusion from her sudden escape. "Night."

* * *

He follows her up the stairs a few minutes later, just to check that she's okay. It's been a rough few days, but she's not usually quite that skittish in his presence. The guestroom door at the end of the hall is ajar, and he steps over to it. It's open enough that the light from the hall diffuses in and casts a trail of light to the foot of the bed. He stops in his tracks, hand poised to knock now suspended in midair. Her back is to him, the light illuminating her, from her heels, up her calves, the back of her thighs, the smooth red satin of her underwear, the creamy pale contrast of her back, the curve of her spine as she bends to place her shirt on the bed. He can't not look, can't help but take it all in, having had a quick glance at her body while he had rescued her from her burning apartment he can't stop himself staring now.

He shifts his weight, his clothing rustles, and she freezes. She straightens, and turns to face him, her lips parted in surprise.

"Castle," she breathes out, before folding her hands across her chest.

But he can still see the dark red of her bra, the pale mounds as her arms push her breasts out, can see everything she is trying to hide from him. He needs to raise his eyes, but he's transfixed.

She isn't moving to close the door, is barely even breathing. He lifts his eyes, pushes the door open a little more, and watches her reaction. She holds his eyes, swallows thickly, and gives him the tiniest of nods.

He steps into the room, quietly easing the door closed behind him. The room remains softly lit, light filtering in through the window, streetlights, the glow of the city, removing the blackness of night from inside. She watches him, her eyes never shifting from his, wide and hesitant, yet gleaming with need. His hands find her warm waist, settle at her hips, his fingers follow her curves, the soft flesh that covers the hard jut of bones beneath. She's all contrasts, all contradictions and conflicts.

But she never says no.

She lets him bring her body to his, the tips of his fingers settling on the thin satin of her underwear, his lips finding hers. Her eyes flutter closed, and he feels her entire body relax into his, her own hands moving to hook her fingers into his belt loops and keep him close.

It's brave, and stupid, and he knows it will end in pain, but he dips his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, feels her intake of breath against his lips as he slides ever lower and sweeps two fingers down through her folds. He does it without hesitation, knowing if he falters she will shy away. She feeds off his confidence, her leg curls around his calf, and she bucks against his hand, applying extra pressure to the fingers currently swirling around her clit, skimming down to gather moisture, and sliding inside her. The little gasps, soft sobs of pleasure, force her lips to slip from his, and she breathes against his skin, sharp and jagged intakes of air, hot, damp exhalations.

He can't even be sure this is really happening. They were downstairs, sipping hot chocolate, and now he has her warm body flush against his, and his fingers deep inside her, easing in and out while his thumb works her clit, and he can already feel her begin to unravel.

She's falling apart in his arms, so quietly. Everything is a mere whisper. Undoing his pants, sliding them down, freeing him from his boxers, wrapping her fingers around his hard cock, all with barely a sound. Just the soft rustle of clothing, and gasps that could be imagined. She pulls back before she peaks, every nerve ending surely tingling, and kicks her underwear down her long legs. She pushes him to the floor, on his back, and straddles his hips, a gentle palm caressing his erection as she guides him to her entrance, and slides down. She meets his eyes, just briefly, before grasping his thighs behind her, and leaning back, her breasts straining against her bra as her body curves. On her knees, she rocks her hips, lifts herself, and clenches her muscles around him.

The visual alone is enough to undo him, combined with the feeling of being sheathed within her, the silky feel of her moving around him, the tight control of her muscles, and he isn't even moving. He can't. He can't thrust up into her, the noise on the floorboards too much when his family is sleeping nearby. He has to leave it all up to her, and damn if it isn't doing it for both of them.

His fingers run down her stomach, and she shudders under his touch. He keeps moving, eliciting soft sighs and gasps as he trails lower, and aids her in her release with two skilled fingertips against her clit. Her body tightens around him, above him, and then she lets go, shudders of release running through her, into him.

Boneless, she eases forward, and shifts. He slips out from inside her, still hard, his own climax denied. But she's not finished. She moves up next to him on the floor, stretching out her muscles as she does so, and presses her flesh to his. Her lips cover his mouth, her fingers wrap around his hard shaft, and she coaxes him to orgasm with an expert touch. He comes hard, gasping into her mouth, milky fluid coating his stomach.

She squeezes him gently, sucks his lower lip between her teeth, and then pushes away from him. Wrapping a sheet around her body, she darts quietly into the shared bathroom, and returns a moment later with a damp washcloth in her hands. She slides back to her knees, sheet hanging off her shoulders, and quietly cleans his skin of the evidence of their joining. He just watches, silent; with the desperate need now subdued, the warmth of love starts to fill him. She moves with slow, gentle strokes across his abdomen, and he realizes then, for the first time, that it _is_ love he feels for her. He loves her. And it kills him. Because despite her careful, soothing hand, he can't bring himself to believe it could ever be returned.

She helps him to his feet, stands before him, eyes locked on his, and the sad smile playing on her lips tears him apart.

_We shouldn't have done that._

"Castle-" she begins, regret in her tone.

He covers her lips with his own, stealing the words he can't bear to hear right now. He pulls back, tugs his jeans back on while her silent eyes watch him, collects his shirt, and gives her a small nod. "We'll talk tomorrow." He hopes the smile he gives her is reassuring.

Her lips part, before closing again, any words she was about to speak held back. She simply nods, and he leaves her in her silent room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

_The evening after_

There's a soft knock at the door at ten in the evening. He doesn't check, just opens the door, and cocks his head slightly to one side.

"You didn't come in today," she says, standing in the hall, keeping distance between them.

"Didn't think I was welcome," he admits.

Beckett sighs. "It shouldn't have happened, Castle."

"But it did."

"Yeah," she breathes out. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, before saying gently, "I'm sorry I left."

"You needed space."

"I needed time," she corrects.

"Had enough of both?" There's no anger in his tone.

"It shouldn't have happened."

"But it did," he repeats. There's a danger of this going around in circles, but she's not denying it happened, and that gives him hope.

"It did," she agrees.

He opens the door wider. "Come in, Kate."

She watches him in silence for a moment, shifts her weight and holds his gaze. But then she blinks rapidly, ducks her head, and steps into the loft.

"The timing," she begins, stopping as soon as she enters his home, and turning to him.

"It wasn't ideal," he finishes.

"No." She shakes her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. "No, it wasn't." She folds her arms across her chest, shields herself.

"I want more than last night," he admits, keeping his voice low, his eyes soft.

"I do too," she responds.

But then she's holding his eyes again, and he sees it all in them, everything she's about to say, and steels himself. "But?" he asks.

"Just, not right now. I want- I think we could try- I need more time." At his pained expression, she says, "Not space, Castle. Just time. A little more, to find a new place, something permanent, and put my life back together."

"Not space?" he confirms.

She shakes her head and gives him the beginnings of a real smile. "No. I like having you around."

He gestures for her to step forward, and then wraps his arms around her, bringing her body to his until she rests her head against his shoulder, and breathes out. He wonders if she's been holding that breath all day - like he's sure he has been.

"And until then?" he asks. He has her wrapped up in his arms for the first time in their relationship, and now that the lines are redrawn he has no idea what he can and can't do.

She pulls back slightly, and captures his lips in a brief, sweet kiss that offers both an apology and forgiveness. "Until then you're my best friend, and my partner, and we'll figure the rest out in time?"

"In time," he agrees. "But not too much, right?"

She laughs softly and drops her head back against his shoulder. "No," she promises. "Not too much."

"Where are you staying tonight, Kate?"

"I don't know," she admits.

"Stay here." He says the two words so softly he's not sure she heard him, but then he feels the curve of her lips through his shirt as she smiles, and he knows they're going to be okay.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Prompt: Castle and Beckett wake up in each other's body_**  
**Takes place pre-Josh, early S3**

* * *

Kate stretched as she drifted back to consciousness, and as the haze of sleep cleared she knew something wasn't right. Everything felt _different_. The mattress beneath her, her entire body, the stubble on her face.

_Wait. What?_

She scratched her palms over her jaw once more - her decidedly different jaw - and froze, her hands pressed to the coarse, uneven surface that had earlier been her smooth skin.

It was still night, still hours until dawn, but even in the dark room she could see the truth. With the blankets pushed back, body exposed, she could see it _all_.

And what she could see most certainly did not belong to her.

And why the hell was she naked anyway?

Fear and disbelief bubbled up through her; she scrambled out of bed, kicking the sheets away as they tangled around her legs and threatened to trip her.

Light? Light, light, light? Where the hell was the damn switch?

Her fingers found it, flicked it - and she stood there, wrapped in the glow of the soft bedside lamp, her eyes running up and down her body, her brain trying to make sense of what she saw.

Looking up, she took in her surroundings, and groaned. She knew this room. She'd only ever seen it from the office beyond the door, but she knew it.

First thought: _Goddamn Castle._

Second: _What the hell?_

Third: _Mirror!_

She spun around, with less grace than she was used to, and spied the en suite door. Throwing herself forward with big, heavy steps, she pushed on the door, hit the light with a large hand, and inhaled sharply.

Reflected in the mirror was a very naked, very shocked looking, Richard Castle.

She touched her face, and the man looking back at her copied. She turned, tilted her head, prodded gently at her cheeks, and every action was reflected back at her.

"The hell?" she whispered - and promptly shut her mouth, pressed her lips tight together. The voice that had greeted her ears wasn't her own.

She took a moment, before truly panicking, and let her eyes shift a little lower. Down, down, down, his chest, his stomach, lower still. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes widened.

_Damn. _

_Impressive._

She closed her eyes, and turned the light off with haste. She stood in the dark, fingers clenched around the towel rail, eyes closed so tight she was seeing stars.

_No. No, no, no, no, no. _

She backed out of the room, hitting a hip sharply against the side of the door as she stumbled out. Hissing at the pain, she turned into the room, rushed over to turn off the bedside lamp, and then collapsed back on the bed, wrapping the sheets around her, hiding from it all.

It wasn't real. It wasn't possible. They'd been drinking last night, sure, but now she was beginning to question exactly what he'd been topping her glass up with. Christ, what a nightmare.

And it was. It had to be.

Beneath the sheets, hip throbbing, she willed herself to wake up, desperate to end this horrific dream.

* * *

Beckett sat behind her desk, downing her second coffee, still trying to shake the remnants of the dream. She had awoken to her alarm, in her own room, in her own body, slightly hungover - with a slickness between her legs she refused to think about. She didn't want to focus on the dream, but her traitorous brain kept flashing images of naked Castle through her mind, endless, delicious images on a glorious loop. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth, and let the loop run again.

"Morning, Beckett," Castle's voice greeted her, and she sat up straighter, put a stop to the loop, and hoped like hell the warmth spreading through her body wasn't evident on her skin.

She cleared her throat, and graced him with a smile. "Morning." She frowned as he eased himself into his chair, his movements stilted. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He shuffled a little to get comfortable, and grimaced. "Woke up with a sore hip," he admitted. "Must have had more to drink last night than I'd realized if I can't remember hurting it."

Beckett blinked rapidly to clear her head. "Sorry? What?" she asked in surprise. "You hurt your hip?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, did you see it happen?"

She swallowed, and then shook her head. Coincidence. Yes. "No."

"Speaking of alcohol-induced weirdness, I had the strangest dream last night," he began, his features brightening at the memory.

She took a sip of her coffee, and raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

"Woke up in your body," he announced. Leaning in a little closer, he murmured, "Which is smoking, by the way."

Beckett spat the mouthful of coffee across the desk, and gaped at him. "You- I- What- Castle!"

He leaned back in his chair, smirking at her response, his eyes shifting between hers and the dark droplets now staining the papers on her desk. "Don't worry," he began, still smirking, way too proud of himself, "I kept my hands to myself."

Before she could respond, he added, "Your hands, however…" With a sparkle in his eyes he stood, and limped off towards the break room.

She watched him go, lips parted in shock, still trying to process everything. Coincidence, coincidence, coincidence - except, what if…?

Shaking her head, she downed the last of the coffee, fished a napkin from a desk drawer, and threw it down on the stained paperwork.

She was never drinking again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Season 7 speculation **

**Inspired by a prompt by the lovely lv2bnsb, and also a response to the ficathon prompt: The immediate aftermath of the Season Finale/Season 7 speculation.  
**

* * *

Two weeks of silence has filled their bedroom; two weeks of an empty, cold space beside her when she tries to sleep has haunted her.

Sleep has been fleeting.

Tonight it refuses to come.

Eleven. Twelve. One. The hours pass before her eyes, until she can take it no more and turns onto her other side, her back to the clock. It's digital, but she swears she can still hear the seconds ticking by.

She's wired; today was another long day, with no leads, of feeling so close to finding him, but then denied - again. Another location, another empty room, signs he was there, but then moved - again. She's running on empty now, feels the last of her resolve slipping, her exhaustion is almost too much to bear - and yet she cannot sleep. Her mind won't turn off, she _can't_ turn it off. She needs him, misses him, fears for him. She's starting to question if she can even do this without him.

She wonders if she were the one missing would he have found her by now? She's starting to doubt herself, starting to lose faith in her skills. A detective who can't find her own fiancé. What a waste she is turning out to be.

The longer she is awake, the more her mind turns against her.

With a heavy sigh, she curls up, almost into herself, and presses her palm down, lets her hand warm the space he once filled at night - _will fill again_, she reminds herself.

Despite her efforts, it's too cold. The tips of her fingers sweep across the sheet beside her, draw an outline of his form, until her palm comes to rest above where his heart would be.

She needs him home, needs him safe, needs to wrap her arms around him and lay her head on his chest until the sound of his heartbeat lulls her to sleep. She needs to sleep, needs more than a mere hour or two of broken dreams. She curls around his pillow, breathes in the fading scent of him, and begs to be swathed in the bliss of oblivion that only sleep can bring.

* * *

She awakes slowly, no alarm pulling her forcefully back to consciousness, no phone calls, no texts, no sounds at all. And, for a second, she feels at peace, for a second everything is as it should be - and then the hazy remnants of sleep lift. She remembers, why she is alone, why the space beside her is untouched, why her heart aches.

He was _just_ with her; the dream is already forgotten, but there are images of him too recent to be real.

She's still clasping the pillow against her, still has her nose pressed against it, and the smell of him brings the dream back. Scenes of him beneath her, her legs straddling his hips, his hands clasped with hers, his voice coaxing her to let go. Scenes of him behind her, draped across her back, thrusting and filling her. She's removed from the two bodies on the bed, watching their positions shift, present but not included. Standing back, she's watching them make love, bathed in candlelight, and she's crying - because the person he's making love to is empty, because she can't feel him anymore. He's there - but _she's_ gone.

The images of them together sparks a need dampened since she lost him. With a hesitant hand, she slides the sheet down, rolls onto her back, bites her lower lip, and lets her legs shift slowly apart. Eyes closed, she sees him, above her, the tips of his fingers grazing her skin, exploring each shift in texture and shape as he trails down her body.

Her legs drift further apart, and he teases her through her panties, the slightly coarse material grazing the sensitive bunch of nerves, sliding more freely the more aroused she becomes. For a moment she's lost in the belief it's him. For a moment the ache in her heart eases, the burn of arousal heats her, melts the ripped edges of her broken heart, and melds it back together. For a moment she is no longer bleeding; for a moment she is merely scarred.

For a moment her heart beats again.

Her hands still, rest motionless between her legs, and she can't do this. Dragging both hands off her panties, she presses her palms tight against her eyes; her hands slide down her face, until they cover her mouth and muffle her whispered, "I miss you, babe."

The desperation in her voice can't be hushed, the sound cuts through her, and her broken intake of breath only breaks her heart once more. She curls back onto her side, tears streaming down her cheeks, emitting soft, jagged sobs, sounds that are almost deafening in the silence of the bedroom.

Staring at the dark, empty space beside her, she knows the hours will drift by frustratingly slow. She hauls her exhausted body out of the bed, and lets the shower water mingle with her tears. She stays under the hot spray until all traces of her pain have been washed from her skin.

It's three in the morning, but she's doing him no good here. They're all used to this now, anyway, they've stopped arguing with her when they arrive at the precinct in the morning to find her there already. They've stopped asking her what time she came in.

They've stopped commenting on her red eyes, the dark smudges beneath.

But they haven't stopped trying to find him, won't until they get him back.

Her broken heart twists and torments her. The longer she stays under the hot water the more her mind screams that she's wasting time; she's failing him.

Kate's clinging to dreams where she can no longer feel him.

Castle would have found her by now.

* * *

**I think we have a tendency to be irrational in times like these. And if it takes a while to get him back, I can imagine even the strong Kate Beckett's brain starting to turn against her, to push blame onto herself - even when none exists. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Ficathon Prompt: _Lanie and Tory become friends in spite of the fact that practically the only thing they have in common is that they both might be in love with Javier Esposito_. (Prompt is used very loosely here, be warned)**

**_That 70s Show _Post-ep**

* * *

Esposito is stunned into silence by the scene before him: Tory and Lanie dancing together, moving like they're the only two people on the dance floor. His eyes drift from Tory's slim figure, to Lanie's curves, burn a hot trail up her body, and find her eyes now locked on him. Lanie's moving to the music, swaying her body in time to the beat, and watching him with pure need. She juts a hip to one side, rolls her shoulders back, and her chest is a little more prominent now - and her lips a shade of red no lipstick could produce. Pure want radiates out from her, and he finds himself drawn in like a sailor to the sirens, experience telling him this will end just as badly. Still, he goes to them.

He slides in between them, into the space they've made just for him. Tory leans forward, curls her fingers over Esposito's shoulder, presses her long, lithe body into his, and murmurs into his ear, "Rematch."

Maybe it's the 70s theme, the wig, the mustache, their tight, tight dresses. They're all playing a different role tonight, lost in an era of pivotal change. Wedged between their gyrating bodies, Esposito leans back as Tory's body slides against his, and he hears her whispered words, hears her propositioning Lanie behind him. Lanie's full breasts press against his back, and he can't see her but God that thing she just did with her hips sure felt like a yes to him.

He knows what Tory's words mean, knows what she's planning. They shouldn't do this, not sober. Probably not at all. Not when last time was supposed to be a one-off, a mistake they weren't supposed to ever discuss - a night he hasn't been able to stop thinking about since.

The flimsy dresses, his own tight clothing, all do little to disguise what hides beneath. They need to leave, before someone gives them away, before others are clued in. Before he takes them both on this dance floor.

* * *

Tory slips away first, her long hair trailing behind her as she cuts her way through the dancers, the start of the journey back to her place, again, like last time. Her bedroom is becoming a sanctity for their sordid trysts. He follows, after a '_later'_ to Lanie, a promise rather than a farewell, who says her own goodbyes, and heads off shortly after. The three meet on the sidewalk, squeeze into the back of the same cab, Espo once again between them, their fingernails scratching up the tight material clinging to his inner-thighs, his own hands trailing under silky material, discovering warm skin beneath, dividing his attention evenly between them.

The cabbie's getting an eyeful in the mirror; he sees Tory catch the driver's eye, and it only serves to spur her on. Her lips press to Espo's neck, her tongue flicks across his skin, and she sucks on the spot that turns him into putty in her hands.

Lanie's dress has shifted high enough to allow her the freedom to throw a leg in between his; she cups his face in her palms, and rubs herself against his thigh. He applies pressure, shifting his knee, and she keens softly into his mouth, tugging his lips harder against her own, thrusting her tongue past his. The hot, wet slide of tongues, of Lanie's underwear dampening his thigh, of Tory's full, parted lips sucking his neck, almost undoes him. The fucking cab driver better put his foot down and break some speed limits or they'll be paying the fine for soiling the back of this cab, getting arrested for indecent acts in public.

It's all hands, and legs, damp fabric, and the smell of sex, and he can't fucking think.

Tory cups him through his tight pants, before she scratches her neatly-trimmed nails along the length of the zipper, huskily whispering obscenities against his neck.

_Rápido, rápido, _he silently begs the cabbie.

They can't get to her apartment fast enough.

* * *

They come to a stop, the cab, the three sandwiched in the back almost climbing each other, and someone tosses bills through the gap, no one caring if it's too much, not enough. But the driver seems satisfied, perhaps the show alone enough of a tip.

Clothes are adjusted, and they slide out the same side, somewhat presentable for the short walk into the building, to the elevator.

They're quiet, keeping a respectable distance, but he brings his hands to Lanie's hips and drags her in front of him, hiding the wetness on his thigh.

Her fault, after all.

The elevator doors slide closed, the floor is chosen, and he's pressed between them again, Lanie behind him, Tory in front, their hands slipping beneath his shirt, easing down the zipper of his pants. He angles his head to capture Tory's lips, but all he gets from her lips is a sly smirk before she claims Lanie's. He hears the wet smack of hot, open mouths connecting, and God knows whose hands are squeezing him but damned if he cares. He can't get his own hands between their bodies, he's sandwiched in too tight; he skims the pads of his fingers up silken material, aching for skin, listening to two pairs of swollen lips as they slide and nip. The elevator stops, the doors slide open, and it's all just a blurry mess of lips, and hands, of moving bodies, and the slide of material.

* * *

They enter Tory's apartment in a rush, hands moving quickly to shed Esposito of his clothing, so tight they peel the pants down his legs, tearing the shirt as they free him of it. Tory reaches for Lanie's dress, but he stops her, a dangerous edge in his tone as he commands, "Leave them on."

He beckons them to the bedroom, waits for Lanie to slink down the length of the bed, dress riding up to reveal the long expanse of her thighs, parted just enough to give him a peek of what's underneath. No underwear. When did that happen? Tory peels her own sodden panties down her legs, and kicks them off, the scrap of material so small he wonders why she bothered with them at all.

Espo eases in between Lanie's splayed legs, hiking her dress to her waist, and coaxing her legs even farther apart. He presses his face to her, parts her folds with his thumbs, and runs the tip of his tongue up from opening to clit. His cock twitches from the taste of her, how wet she already is, how her body responds to his. She arches back, inhaling sharply, pressing her heels deeper into the mattress, and her cunt harder against his face.

He feels the dip of the mattress beside him, feels the movement of Tory's body on the comforter as she makes her way up to Lanie's breasts.

He lifts his head, just enough, to catch a peek of Tory sliding Lanie's arms free of the dress straps, and tugging the top of the dress down until it bunches at her stomach, her breasts exposed. With his tongue circling Lanie's sodden, swollen clit, he watches as Tory wraps her lips around one nipple, her forefinger and thumb around the other, and circles, and pinches, and sucks.

He eases up a bit, and thrusts two thick fingers inside Lanie's dripping core, harshly flicking her clit with his thumb, and nipping at her inner thigh.

Fuck, she's close, he can hear it in her short, desperate breaths, feel it in her ever-tightening muscles surrounding him, see it in the color flaming through her smooth, dark skin.

Tory's on her knees, and he can't keep his eyes from drifting to her perfect ass as it sways gently. He wants to bury his head between her legs, the pink lips he can see just barely peeking through, desperate to taste her.

Tory shifts, and nudges him away. He reluctantly moves out from between Lanie's legs, and the space is quickly claimed by Tory, on her stomach, lips enclosing Lanie's clit, nails digging into her thighs. Espo kneels on the bed, brings Tory up onto her knees while her tongue works Lanie, and swiftly enters her from behind. He thrusts, hears her sigh against Lanie's folds, her mouth pausing while he fills her, while he slides in to the hilt, his hands on her hips, holding her tight against him - and then he begins to move. Lanie mewls, Tory grunts with each thrust, and fuck this is just going to be hard, and fast, and messy. He pounds into Tory, pushing her mouth harder between Lanie's splayed legs with each thrust, and she doesn't let up, she just keeps working her mouth, clinging to Lanie's thighs, drawing sounds from Lanie he doesn't think he's ever managed to elicit from her. Gripping her hips, he slams into her repeatedly, finding his own rhythm faltering as his orgasm builds. One of Tory's hands slides off Lanie's body, shifts down between her own legs, and he can feel her body respond around him the moment she touches herself.

Eyes slammed shut, breathing ragged, Lanie pinches her own nipples, and it takes her over the edge - and then it's all just like dominoes falling. Lanie climaxes against Tory's tongue, Tory's breath hitches against Lanie's thigh as her own orgasm takes hold of her, and with a final series of short, sharp thrusts, he empties himself deep inside Tory.

For a moment, it's quiet; bodies lay sprawled over each other on the disheveled comforter, and the smell of sex hangs heavy in the air. But he is the first to shift, to ease out of Tory, and move up the mattress. Tory slides between them both, he presses his body against her back, spoons her tightly, and his eyes meet Lanie's over sweat-slicked skin and wrinkled material.

Later, _soon_, once they've recovered, he's determined to coax those noises out of Lanie on his own - while Tory watches on.


	12. Chapter 12

**Post-ep for Embarrassment of Bitches - Royal chooses Kate**

* * *

The heavy knocking at seven that evening had been expected. Since leaving the precinct earlier that evening with the newly acquired dog, Kate had wondered how long before Castle came bounding to her apartment like an over-excited retriever. Unlocking the door, she swung it open, and cocked an eyebrow. "Here to give me another lesson on how Royal likes to be petted?" she asked.

"Why? You need one?" he asked.

Beckett rolled her eyes. "No. Why are you here then?"

Bringing his hand out from behind his back, he produced the squeaky toy. "Just dropping off Mr Squeaky." He handed it to her, and waited.

Kate sighed. "Oh, fine. Do you want to come in?"

His smile grew wide, and he entered her home. "Sure." His eyes fell on the dog sprawled along Beckett's couch, and he made a bee-line straight for him.

Closing the door, she followed, shaking her head at the two of them as she approached. Castle now sitting on her couch, like he lived there, with Royal's paws on his thighs, the dog's sloppy tongue trying to make contact with his face. It was a little gross, but cute. "Please, have a seat," she muttered.

Scratching the dog's ears, while gently pushing his big furry face back to avoid the tongue, Castle asked, "Figured out what you'll do with him during the day?"

"Not yet," she admitted, sitting on the small section of couch not yet occupied. "But I will."

"Alexis is happy to dog-sit whenever you need her to."

"Thanks, but she might have to fight my dad for that honor."

"You dad likes dogs?" Castle asked, in mild surprise.

"Used to have a Retriever when I was a kid, so when he heard about Royal he was quick to offer."

"You grew up with a dog?"

"Well, not exactly. He died when I was six, but I have memories of the big lug." She smiled. "Fond ones." Meeting Castle's eyes, she added, "I'll figure things out with Royal, make it work."

"I know you will," he replied.

Royal's back end found her thighs, and he'd soon planted his hind legs on her, his front feet on Castle, heavy body stretched out over the both of them.

"I think we're stuck."

Castle's eyes softened, and he said, "I can think of worse ways to be stuck."

"Pretty sure I can too." She twisted on the couch, trying to get a little more comfortable, and winced as the movement pulled at her scars.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Scars?"

She released a heavy sigh. "Yeah," she replied, giving him a tight smile.

"Do you remember-"

"No," she said before he could finish. "I- No, not really."

He nodded, mulling over her words, and dropped his gaze down to Royal's head.

His fingers started rubbing circles between the dog's eyes, and Kate remembered the way his touch had felt on her skin, remembered how she had almost gotten lost in it. She wanted it again, his skin on hers, wanted to wake up beside him every morning, with sunlight streaming through blinds onto their naked flesh, his comforting scent surrounding her.

"Why?" she asked, feeling brave. "Why do you keep asking? Is there something I should remember, because the way I see it nothing good could come from remembering the feel of hot lead shooting through my body."

He hesitated, his fingers stilling on the dog. He lifted his eyes to hers, and it was all swirling in the blue depths. A whirlpool of hope, and regret.

"Did you…" She swallowed down her doubts, and dropped a hand to Royal's rump, just resting it on his soft fur. "Did you speak to me?"

He blinked in surprise. "You do remember."

"I don't know what was real and what was imagined."

The damn dog sprawled over his lap kept him from sliding across the couch and wrapping his arms around her like he wanted to, but from the way she was folding her arms across her chest it was probably for the best. "What do you think you heard?" he pushed.

"You told me you love me," she began in an even tone.

"I did," he confirmed.

"Because I was dying," she finished.

"No." With a gentle nudge, he persuaded the dog the floor would be more comfortable right now. Royal shifted down to the floor, and curled up at their feet. He reached for her hand, filled the space between her fingers with his own, and met her eyes. "Not because you were dying," he told her. "Because I meant it."

Kate held his eyes, searching them for a hint of untruth. But his gaze was so serious, radiating with raw honesty, his heart wide open before her in the irises of his eyes. She squeezed his hand, pressing her palm tight against his, the pads of her fingers between his knuckles, and held on for dear life as she replied, "I love you too." Her voice faltered as she said the words, and she gave him a watery smile. "I don't say those words very often."

He tugged her to him, and covered her lips with his own, kissing away her fears. "I know," he whispered against the corner of her mouth. He dropped her hand, cupped her face, caressed her cheek with the pads of his thumbs.

"Why'd you come over tonight?" she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. "To see Royal?"

Castle's eyes stayed locked on hers, his soft touch still sweeping across her skin. "To see _you_," he confirmed. "Royal was just an excuse."

"Good excuse." She pressed her forehead to his, and closed her eyes. "You love me," she repeated.

"And you love me," he replied. His hands trailed a little higher up her cheeks, he broke the contact of his forehead against hers, dipped her head with a gentle touch, and then pressed his lips to her forehead.

She smiled, and pulled back to meet his eyes. "Stay?" She leaned in, and nipped at his lips.

"Bedroom?" he breathed his own question against her lips, before covering them completely and stealing her words.

Nodding, her mouth sliding against his, Kate eased to her feet, never breaking the contact with him. Hands explored, feet stepped over a settling dog, and they fumbled their way to her bedroom, a trail of clothing in their wake.


	13. Chapter 13

**Prompt: _Inspired by Kate's conversation with Meredith in Significant Others: Kate decides to fill a book with all the things she knows about Castle._ **

**But instead of something in S5 or later I've set it S2, around the time of **_**The Mistress Always Spanks Twice**_**.  
**

* * *

It begins as a word, six letters scrawled into a notebook, each letter neat and precise.

_Writer_

She goes back, to the top. Her pen hovers above the crisp paper in the new notebook, and she pauses, considers writing his name, thinks she'll probably underline it too. But she stops herself and leaves the top line free of ink. There's no need to name him. She knows who she's writing about. She just doesn't know _why_ exactly.

Period. A Pause. She ponders, silent. Her pen moves again. And then the sound of furious writing fills the air around her as one word becomes five, until sentences start to form and spill onto the second line...

_Writer. Son. Father. Jackass. Wiseass. The man who created a world, who drew me into it, who helped me survive. _

... Into a page:

_Writer. Son. Father. Jackass. Wiseass. The man who created a world, who drew me into it, who helped me survive. _

_Sent to annoy me, married twice, can't stay out of my business. For a while I hated him._

_No, I didn't hate him, that's not fair, too unkind of me to put it like that, but I was angry, frustrated, hurt, betrayed._

_I'm not any of those anymore. I've forgiven him. He's hard to stay mad at. I see him with Alexis, see him as a father, instead of my tormenter, and I soften. I see him with Martha, see him as a son, instead of a shadow I can't shake, and I let him in just a little more. _

_I might need him - but not in the way he'd like. Or is that egotistical of me to say? To even write? A year ago I never could have dreamed I would let anyone - let alone this man - sniff around my mom's case. A year ago everything was so different. And now I can admit, if only on these pages, that I might just need him. For the first time I feel like I'm actually getting somewhere, like we're getting somewhere, with her case. And he's there, always there, as an anchor, should I need one. But I won't tell him that, that I might need him. No._

_But that's one thing I do know about him: he will keep me from losing myself in the case. I could fight him with every ounce of strength I had, and he would still be there, at my side, holding my head above water. Because he feels responsible for digging into things off-limits to him. Because he feels like now that he's opened these wounds again he needs to be there to keep me from bleeding out. Because Nikki needs a back-story, and he wants more fodder for the novels. Because he… _

_Are we friends? Is he just here until a better muse comes along? How many have there been in the past? His past… He knows so much about mine now. I know so little about_

And then it stops, mid-sentence. The pen is dropped heavily on the unlined paper, and her hand stills. Who is he, really? He isn't the man she'd read about on Page Six, countless times, over the years. He's certainly not the same man who sat opposite her, one evening, and took pride in retelling the tale of stealing a police horse in the nude.

One year in, and she's curled up on her couch, thinking about him, writing about him. Is this what he does? Is this how a novel begins?

But she can't even complete a single page on him. It's a realization that surprises her, but it's the sudden determination to peel his own layers back that surprises her more. Her fingers reach for the pen, she curls it up against her palm, snug in her hand. Her eyes drift, seeing nothing as she loses herself in memories of this past year working together. She's not sure what possessed her to start this, but she'd like to finish it. She'd like to say she could fill a book with everything she knows about him, like he's been able to do with her. Because even if she isn't Nikki - and she's not - he knows more about her than most learn after a decade at her side. She's starting to like him - to tolerate him - but he's been taking too much. Or she's been giving it. Either way, it's time to balance things out a little more.


	14. Chapter 14

**Prompt:_ "From one Kiwi to another: Write me a Castle fic that's like Castle but set in New Zealand with the slang and everything."_**

* * *

The Holden Commodore blazed through the city streets, a blur of red and blue and yellow and white, on its way to another scuffle at a corner dairy.

Beckett sighed as Castle struggled to get into his high visibility vest without undoing his seat belt.

"You're supposed to put it on before we leave the station," she reminded him for the hundredth time.

"I know, I know," he muttered, seat belt now off his shoulder, head poking through the sleeve, one arm so restricted he was almost in a straitjacket.

She shook her head, and then applied a little more pressure to the accelerator. The sirens wailed as they sped through the city, but through the noise she could still hear the rustling of his high viz vest as he finally had it on and in place.

"Sorted," he told her, to signal his win over the vest.

Beckett sighed. "_Before_ we get in the car next time, Castle."

"Yeah, yeah. Sweet as."

"Mmhmmm," she muttered, flicking off the siren as they approached the dairy. How many times had she heard that from him now?  
With a quick glance into her mirrors, Beckett swerved to the side of the road and came to sudden stop beside the curb.

Baton, pepper spray, and taser in place, she threw open the car door and headed for the 24 hour corner store, Castle following at her side.

Entering the small store, she found the owner pointing a cricket bat at a youth huddled in a corner, the kid trying to shield his head while the owner threatened to swing.

"Calm yer tits, bro," the kid cried. "I didn't do nuthn."

"Police," Beckett announced. "Put the bat down!"

The owner took a step back, but still clutched the worn cricket bat tightly. "He stole a packet of chips."

"Nah, bro," the kid argued, getting to his feet, and dusting himself off like nothing had happened. "I was gunna pay." He looked at Castle and Beckett and argued, "He's just racist, man."

The older Indian store owner looked offended. "You stuffed the chips down your pants!"

The kid pointed at the twisties, a moro, two chocolate fish, a packet of pineapple lumps, and the can of L&P on the ground beside his jandle-clad feet and said, "Chill, bro. I was freeing up my hands, that's all."

Beckett ran a hand through her hair and sighed. "You gonna pay for that stuff?" she asked the kid.

"Yeah, yeah, for sure." He tugged a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to her.

She held it out to the disgruntled owner, and asked, "If he pays, are you happy to leave it at that?"

The owner sighed, and took the money. "This time, but if it happens again-"

Beckett looked at the kid. "It's not gonna happen again, right? Next time you're gonna put the stuff on the counter to free up your hands instead of down your pants, okay?"

"Sweet as," the kid agreed.

She took the change, and an empty white plastic bag, handed it all to the kid, who threw a, "Chur, bro," over his shoulder to the owner as he was being led outside. The kid held the plastic bag full of junk food in one hand, and rested his other palm on the bonnet of the car, drumming a beat as Beckett flipped open her notepad.

"Don't do that," she warned him. He pulled his hand off the car. "ID."

She raised her eyes to Castle, still in the store, talking with the owner about something, and waited for the boy to dig his 18+ Card out of his pocket.

"Here," he said, finally handing it to her.

Castle exited the store, three small paper bags in his hands, looking entirely too pleased.

Beckett handed the kid his ID back, and Castle handed him one of the paper bags, grease already appearing on one side of it, almost turning the paper transparent.

"Choice, bro!" The kid took the small, bagged mince and cheese pie from him and grinned.

"Really, Castle?" Beckett asked, unimpressed.

"What?" Castle asked. "It's cold tonight. It's three A.M., and the kid's had the crap scared out of him by a cricket bat."

"Can I go now?" the boy asked them both.

Beckett fixed him with a hard glare. "Are we gonna get another call because you shoved something down your pants?"

"No," he promised.

"Then yes, you're free to go."

Castle handed Beckett one of the pies, and then gave them both a serious look. "Before you go, and this applies to you too, Beckett. Don't forget to blow on the pie."

The kid blinked, and Beckett just rolled her eyes.

"It's three A.M.," Castle continued, "and those pies have been in the warmer for twelve hours, they're thermonuclear. _Always_ blow on the pie."

The kid smiled. "Thanks, bro."

Beckett heaved a heavy sigh.

"Blow on the pie," Castle threw at the kid one last time as he turned and walked away from them.

"Shut up, Castle," Beckett warned him.

"Safer communities together," he reminded her, before tugging his pie out of the bag and blowing a generous puff of air over the steaming pastry.


	15. Chapter 15

**Prompt_: postep for TLaDiLA, where Kate and Josh break up so she and Castle can do what they couldn't do in LA._**

* * *

LA stretches out below her, blazing like a lit-up circuit board out the small window of the plane, a labyrinth of beaming straight lines of light, and bright dots like flares that can't be extinguished. They're still ascending, the lift beneath the wings pushing the plane up, pushing her back in her chair - and Castle's already nodding off, unfazed by the bumps, the sudden drops, from the air pockets encountered as they slice through the night sky towards morning.  
She's not a nervous flyer, but she'll be pleased once they've levelled out and the seatbelt sign is turned off. She gazes out the window, watches the pattern of lights grow tighter, fainter, hears the slow, soft breathing beside her, and begins to relax.  
The force pushing against her lessens, the plane levels out, and her fingers delve into the pocket of her jeans, and find the piece of paper folded with care, nestled between the denim.  
She dares a quick glance to Castle, but he's sleeping soundly, so she unfolds the paper, and reads the words again.

And again.

* * *

By the time they've landed she has it all memorized, every sentence, every word, forever a part of her now. She should have slept, she knows. They left LA late; it's morning in New York, the sun up but hidden behind darkening clouds, and she can feel her exhaustion all the way to her bones. Her body almost feels heavier than her heart.

They stand outside the terminal, hailing a cab, their bags at their feet, and there's a different kind of sadness tugging at her now. He was different in LA, more open with her, and, dare she think it, _ready_. And she was… broken, raw from the loss of Royce. Had Castle been outside her door when she'd opened it, she would have kissed him. And she tells herself she wouldn't have slept with him, but even now she doesn't know how much truth there is in that. Maybe she would have. She's glad she'll never know.

He places their bags in the trunk, and then opens the door for her. Maybe he wasn't so different in LA, she thinks, sliding into the back of the cab, giving him a tight smile that's still tinged with sadness. Maybe she just saw him differently.

Maybe she's just tired.

* * *

Her eyes are locked out the misty window of the cab, the first drops of rain beginning to fall around them.  
She can feel him watching her, can feel his eyes on the back of her head, boring into her mind. Desperate to know what's going on in there. Sleep-deprived thoughts, the voices in her head tell him. He doesn't react.

They near her apartment, and she turns and gives a soft smile. "Thank you, Castle."

He nods, a silent 'i_t was nothing_'. "Need help with your bag?"

Her lips curve more, but the sadness lingers in her eyes. She can feel it in her heart, knows he's seeing it all. "I can manage."

"Tomorrow then?" he asks, because she mentioned taking the day off work.

"Tomorrow," she confirms.

"Goodnight, Beckett," he says in response, and whether it's her tired eyes, or lethargic movements that gave her away, he_ knows_ she didn't sleep.

How could she?

* * *

She exits the cab, the sadness unshakable. Bag clasped in one hand, cell phone in the other, she drops her gaze as she enters the elevator. She feels compromised, but amidst all the heartache and confusion one thing feels right. There's something she needs to do, something that's been whispering to her from the back of her mind for a while now, something that LA forced her to make a decision about. No more excuses, no more hoping it all might improve, both feet in or...

She pushes the button for her floor, with the same finger she presses the circular button on her phone, swipes her thumb across the display, and releases a heavy sigh.

_Passcode._  
_Contacts._  
_Josh._

...both feet out.

It all has to end tonight.

* * *

Her stomach drops along with the elevator. Josh stopped by. The conversation was brief, and about as amicable as she had expected. Now he's gone - for good.  
She's exhausted, and heartbroken, her wounds from her mentor's death still aching, but the fight has left her now.  
She steps out into the damp, grey day, hits the subway, and heads to his neighborhood. She enters his building, and her anxiety rises with the elevator.

What if they missed their chance?

* * *

She knows how she looks as she scrapes her knuckles against the heavy door; she'd caught her reflection in the mirrored back of the elevator, hair dishevelled from running her fingers through it too much, red-rimmed eyes on the verge of releasing tears. But she's holding them in, determined to get through this.

But then Castle opens his door, she meets his eyes, and she can't anymore.

He ushers her inside with an arm around her waist, and soothing words leaving his lips. She doesn't focus on the words, just the comforting sound of his voice.

She leans against him, silent tears streaming down her cheeks, lets him guide her into his study, to the couch there.  
She didn't come here with a plan, didn't run lines through her mind, doesn't expect anything from him. All she knows is she won't hand over the note that's burning a hole in her pocket. Some things aren't written to be shared.

She can feel him watching her again, and she can feel the careful movement behind her as he pulls his arm back and stops touching her. Because they don't touch, not really, and they don't hug, although she could really use one right now, and they certainly don't kiss - so why have they done all three recently?  
She meets his eyes, and it's deja vu all over again. A couch, and a concerned, soft gaze that's unwavering.

She doesn't think she has the words for this, for how she's feeling, for what just occurred back in her apartment, for what this man before her means to her. He might not be asking her what's wrong, if she's okay, but she can see it all in his eyes, those exact questions, and she clasps her hands together, so tight she can feel the delicate bones in her hands pushing back, so tight her knuckles are white and it's all starting to hurt.

God, why does everything hurt so much?

* * *

He leaves her; he stands up, and walks away, and she watches him go. She can't follow. He's in his bedroom, and that's forbidden territory, that's a place she's found herself in many times, in dreams, in fantasies, but never in reality.

He returns a moment later, bends at the waist just a little, and extends his hand. "Come on, Beckett. You need to sleep."

She finds herself frowning, can feel the tension between her eyes, the confusion inside her head.

With a gentle touch he unclasps her hands, and tucks one between both of his. "Take a nap."

"I'm fi-"

"You're not," he informs her. "No one who'd been through what you just went through would be."

She falters for a moment, thinking he means Josh, like he's inside her head. Again. "Castle." But it's all she manages, just his name, wanting to protest, but yielding.

"Power nap, Beckett," he says, holding her hand, and helping her off the couch. "And after, we can talk, if you want. Or you can go straight home. But right now you're dead on your feet."

She can't argue with that description of her current state. "I can sleep at home," she says, but he's leading her to his bedroom, and she's following despite her words.

She's not resisting anymore.

* * *

He hesitates outside the door, like if she's in the bedroom he can't be. She understands.

"I broke up with Josh," she tells him, facing him from her side of the threshold.

He blinks at that confession, and then nods, just once, a hesitant head bob that tells her he's trying to understand why she chose to give him that information. The faint, almost-smile that's tugging at his lips says so much more than any words could right now. He knows. Of course he knows.

"I'll find you something to sleep in."

She steps aside, still on her side, and he enters, because now he has permission, now it's okay for them both to be in the same room.

She watches him find her a shirt, and he's searching through drawers for more but she doesn't need it. "The shirt will be enough," she tells him. "It looks like a good length." Who's going to see her under those covers anyway? And there's something about the idea of his sheets touching her bare skin that suggests to her she wouldn't wear more even if he asked her to.

His throat ripples as he swallows, hard, and she knows he's picturing her, half-naked, in his bed - and she knows he likes what his mind conjures up.

"You'll wake me in an hour?" she asks as he passes her the shirt.

"I will." He moves to the door, curls his palm around the handle, and then gives her a small smile. His lips part, but then he closes his mouth again, nods, and steps out, pulling the door closed with him.

She stands for a moment, in his bedroom, eyes on the smooth door, frozen in place by the realization she's in Castle's bedroom. Alone.

She's done with being alone.

* * *

The shirt drops from her hands, and she strides to the door. Her fingers don't hesitate this time, they grip the handle, yank it down, and she pulls the door open.

And he's there, a shell-shocked expression on a face that just a second earlier had had those surprised eyes locked on the closed door.

She keeps moving, before he can speak, before the moment is gone. She steps into the study, until the toe caps of her shoes meet his; her hands find his face, palms against the rough stubble peppering his jaw, fingertips skating the smooth patches of skin above, and she covers his lips with her own.

His hands drop to her hips, and he kisses her back. He slides his mouth until he can suck her lower lip between his, and he tastes her. With each subtle shift in position, he learns her mouth, exploring beyond to her cheek, catching tears she wasn't even aware had started again. Maybe they never stopped.

He pulls back, and smiles, but there's a rueful edge to it. Because she's sleep deprived, and broken, and crying in his arms. She slides one hand down to his chest and rests it upon his heart; she lets the other fall against her side, and she holds his curious, but sad, gaze with her tired eyes.

She feels his hands leave her hips, and then sees the movement in her peripheral vision. With a slow, almost delicate touch, the pads of his fingers trail down the sides of her face, and then drop to her hand resting on his chest. He laces their fingers together, and eases her back to his bedroom.

"Sleep," he tells her. She opens her mouth to protest, but he silences her with the warm caress of his lips against hers. "We'll talk about this once you've slept," he murmurs against her lips.

She nods in acceptance, because he's right. Of course he's right. She looks back at the bed, and then holds his gaze once more. "You only slept for three hours of that flight," she reminds him. "Stay?"

And he does.


End file.
